


Smoke and Shadow

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Post-War of the Ring, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2007-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 36,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

"She's lovely." That's all he ever heard about this enigmatic fiancée of his. Éomer scowled, his eyes on the plate before him. She may be prettier than all the stars in the sky, but the real question was – could she be a queen and a wife? Éomer needed an heir - a strong, wise, handsome heir. Well, the last bit wasn’t necessarily a mandatory component, but rather, an unspoken one. Shaking his head, the young king stood, leaving his untouched breakfast on the table. His wife would arrive within the next few hours and everything would be alright. That is what he told himself, time and again.  
  
"She seems fair enough," Gamling murmured between bites.  
  
"She may be fair… and stupid," Éomer muttered, pacing the stone floor. They waited in Meduseld for the Gondorian party to arrive bringing the King’s future wife.  
  
"I do not think so, my lord. I have heard she has three brothers and grew up in the company of men. Her skills match those of a Gondorian soldier. I have also been told she bears Elven blood in her veins." Éomer turned to his captain, eyebrows raised. Imrahil must be mad. And yet, this was so politically advantageous, Éomer could not imagine a more perfect union. He stalked impatiently across the floor until his Captain stood, a knowing look on his face.  
  
"Come, my lord. Let us go for a ride. It will calm your nerves. The lady and her attendants will not be here for hours, yet." Éomer followed the older man to the stables. Firefoot peeked his head out of the stall and nickered at the King. Moments later, Gamling, Éomer, and three other men had saddled their horses and were heading down the path away from Edoras. Gamling was, in fact, right. Éomer felt substantially calmer on his horse. He almost forgot his duties as they cantered across the open field. Firefoot seemed especially eager to be outdoors, tossing his head, mane catching the breeze. The five men enjoyed an hour long ride, free of political strategies, irritating councilors and talk of women. One of the men pulled his horse to a halt, gazing over the western boarder.  
  
"My lord, horses arrive." Indeed, a line of eight horses bearing riders came trotting through the brush toward Edoras. Éomer frowned. Certainly it was not his betrothed. He’d expected a carriage and at least twelve Gondorian guards, being that she was a princess and all. Gamling shrugged.  
  
"What Princess comes without an escort and attendants?" Éomer asked, voicing the other men’s silent question.  
  
"Perhaps this is not her company. This could be King Elessar’s men, come to witness the wedding."  
  
"Probably," another man agreed. They were too far away to tell the gender of these riders as they made a line straight for Edoras. But Éomer was confident that this company did not include his bride to be.  
  
"But we should return to greet them. As it is, it looks as though they will arrive before us." Éomer nodded to Gamling as they guided their horses back to home. The five horses entered the city and rode toward the stable. The King could see the Gondorian helmets sparkle silver in the sunlight before they disappeared beyond the barn’s roof. Éomer led his men to Meduseld, dismounting Firefoot with a somber expression. Facing away from the building, Éomer released the buckle on Firefoot’s girth.  
  
"My King," a Gondorian guard called out. Éomer turned around as the man continued. "May I present Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his daughter, the Princess Lothíriel."  
  
Éomer’s eyebrows rose in surprise and mild embarrassment as he faced his soon-to-be wife and her father. Imrahil bowed quickly, a grin on his rugged face. His dark hair was combed back, the ends resting on the fur collar of his riding jacket. Éomer returned the bow, feeling the blood rush to his neck and cheeks with humiliation. When he looked up, a matronly woman had come to flank Imrahil’s left, eyes regarding the young King. This must’ve been his fiancée’s chaperone, for her attire was simple. Imrahil greeted the King of Rohan, but his words fell on deaf ears, for Éomer was looking at the young woman who’d come to stand on her father’s right. For once, at least, the rumors had been true. She was lovely. Beautiful, even. She stood taller than most of the women of Rohan, with fair skin and a slender waist. Unlike the company of blond people of Edoras, this woman’s hair was the deepest shade of night, loose about her. Her eyes were wide and a translucent grey, similar to her father’s. There was a depth to their colour that Éomer had seen in Legolas’ eyes as well as in Aragorn’s consort, Arwen’s eyes. This woman was of Elvish decent. She bowed her head gracefully, her expression stoic. Éomer bowed as well in greeting.  
  
“Éomer King?” Imrahil arched an eyebrow as Éomer turned to him.  
  
“I’m sorry, my lord?”  
  
“I asked if it was customary in Rohan to greet others without words,” the Prince said. Éomer was taken-aback by this, but Imrahil smiled deeply.  
  
"My lady Lothíriel and Imrahil Prince, welcome to Edoras,” Lady Berewyn greeted them, flanking Éomer with a deep curtsey. “I am Berewyn, Lady Lothíriel’s lady-in-waiting.” The aging Mistress Berewyn had been Eowyn’s chief attendant and now the Queen of Rohan was her new charge. The strikingly thin woman watched the Princess, as if to judge her immediate character.  
  
"A pleasure, Lady Berewyn,” Lothíriel replied. Her voice was lower than Éomer expected. She really did bear a striking resemblance to Queen Arwen. The Princess of Dol Amroth gestured to the woman behind her. “This is Lady Ivriel, my attendant.” Lady Ivriel bowed awkwardly, her long braid falling over one shoulder.  
  
"Let us bear your belongings to the bedchamber. You have endured a lengthy ride, and have done so upon a horse rather than a carriage. Come, let me escort you, the Prince and your guards to the Golden Hall where you may eat and rest,” Lady Berewyn said with a stiff smile. She ushered the Princess, her attendant and guards into Meduseld with barely a glance at the King. Imrahil placed a hand on Éomer’s shoulder as the women left.  
  
“She’s a good woman, my daughter.”  
  
“Yes, my lord.”  
  
“I am here to witness the wedding, but must leave tomorrow,” the Prince said. “The White City requires my attendance as she is being rebuilt and I have several council meetings, I’m afraid. I regret not having the chance to acquaint myself with you, but King Elessar assures me you are a decent and noble man.” Imrahil offered a wink and followed his daughter’s company into Meduseld. Gamling came to stand beside Éomer, scratching his beard, watching him depart.  
  
"Well he seems nice enough.”  
  
“Indeed.” The King gave Firefoot’s reins to the stable boy and trailed the Prince into the Golden Hall. It was prepared for the nuptials, with white and gold garlands. Though not as lavish as Aragorn’s wedding, or even Eowyn’s, it was undeniably magnificent. Éomer felt a pang of regret, knowing his sister could not attend his marriage. She was in Minas Tirith with her husband helping to restore the damaged city. With a sigh, the King of Rohan turned from the sight. He had to prepare for the wedding.  
  
* * *  
  
Freshly washed and clothed, King Éomer of Rohan stood at the altar, waiting for his bride. The green tunic he wore was his fathers, embroidered with gold and red threads. He had to admit, it was a handsome piece of cloth with the symbol of Rohan stitched perfectly onto the back. Presiding over the wedding was Lord Elfhelm, Marshal of the East-Mark and a long time companion of the King. The man fidgeted in the seemingly uncomfortable long robes. Éomer smiled inwardly at his old friend’s impatience. The entirety of the Rohirrim court was present, along with the riders of the Mark. Prince Imrahil and his Gondorian guards stood to Éomer’s left, their helmets under their arms. Once the ceremony was over, they would return to Gondor, leaving Lothíriel and her lady.  
  
All eyes were on the King as they waited. Éomer was only slightly nervous. But this was the best thing for his people. With Lothíriel’s generous dowry, the winter would not be so difficult to bear for the farmers who had lost their crops to the war. Fewer households would perish under the harshness of the winters. And hopefully Éomer would have an heir sooner than later.  
  
~  
  
Lothíriel stood before the washbasin in dark the chamber, awaiting Lady Berewyn’s word. Her heart thudded so loudly in her chest she was quite sure the gatherers beyond could hear its echo. It was almost impossible for her to imagine she was getting married, even less so that she would soon become a Queen. Before she left Gondor, she studied the histories of Rohan, hoping to gain some insight regarding its people and customs. She found herself asking the King of Gondor about the Riders of the Mark and his impression of Edoras. He should not have offered to answer her questions, she thought wryly. But here she was, far from her brothers and beloved Dol Amroth. She found a bit of solace in her father’s presence, though she knew he’d have to leave the next day. Perhaps it would not be so horrible.  
  
She straightened her back a little as Lady Ivriel smoothed the skirts, removing invisible fragments of lint from the fabric. The poor woman looked exhausted from her previous equestrian activities, but gave a reassuring smile to her charge. For Lothíriel, the ride to Rohan had not been as rough as she’d been told. In fact, it was rather delightful to spend long hours astride her favourite horse with her father and their guards as company.  
  
She had been pleased when Imrahil allowed her to select her chaperone for her journey. While Lady Ivriel was not accustomed to sitting in a saddle for extended periods of time, Lothíriel knew the woman didn’t object to the Princess riding a horse. Ivriel had been present at the Princess’ birth and had been her attendant there forth, knowing Lothíriel’s preferences and habits. Ivril smiled to herself as she arranged the cloak around the Princess’ shoulders. Even as a girl, Lothíriel had always been partial to the equine species. But why on earth wouldn’t she be, with her wildly rambunctious active brothers?  
  
“It is time, my lady,” the Lady Berewyn whispered, opening the door. Lothíriel glanced at Ivril, who offered the Princess an encouraging smile. With a resolute sigh and squaring of her shoulders, Lothíriel made her way to the altar.  
  
~  
  
Faced toward the doors of Meduseld, Éomer watched his bride traverse the aisle. She was, in fact, a sight to behold. Her dress was a greyer shade of white, not as bright or brilliant as Eowyn’s dress had been. A cape was draped upon Lothíriel’s shoulders; the hem embroidered with the same golden thread as the King’s, the emblem of Rohan sewed into the back of the cape as well. Her dark hair was plaited and wrapped in a coronet around her head, a few tendrils framing her pale face.  
  
Éomer held his hand to her as she approached and she took it, barely offering him a glance. Her skin was cool to the touch, soft and smooth. She faced Elfhelm, who gave the couple a quick smile before speaking their vows. Éomer took the golden grown from the pillow as Lothíriel declined her head. He placed it behind the coronet and she raised her head. He had to admit, she looked every inch the Queen she was. She took the second crown and lifted it above his head, this movement causing her breasts to swell under the dress. Éomer smirked inwardly at his masculine interest. She placed the crown upon his head, her fingers brushing his forehead. Together, they turned to face the people of Rohan, who applauded. Éomer glanced at Imrahil, who was smiling broadly. Perhaps this was a wise decision on all accounts.  
  
The wedding celebration commenced and the ale flowed freely. Lothíriel walked beside her husband as he introduced her to his people. She greeted each person politely, a shadow of a smile on her full lips.  
  
"My lady," Gamling bowed, kissing the back of her hand. “You shall make Rohan proud, there is no doubt.”  
  
"That is my wish," she replied calmly. She stood just an inch shorter than Éomer and they made an impressive couple.  
  
~  
  
“A drink for my Queen?” Lothíriel turned to see a man offering her a mug of warm liquid. She accepted with an appreciative nod. Her throat was parched with all the salutations she’d done. Before she left Gondor, Eowyn had given her a brief description of the most important people she would meet. But there were so many faces, all of them blonde and smiling with the effects of ale it was difficult to keep track.  
  
Her husband placed his hand on her waist, steering her toward another man of Rohan, who smiled widely. Lothíriel followed the same pattern of introduction and expressed her interest when the man proceeded to explain the state of his business as a blacksmith. Her thoughts, however, strayed beyond the noisy hall, across the grassy plains of Rohan, over the White Mountains and resided in Gondor. Dol Amroth, to be exact. She wondered what her brothers were doing at that moment. She figured they were making a bit of mischief and wished dearly she could join them. She longed to sit beside her father, the both of them reading peacefully in the large library. Lothíriel already missed the scent of the sea and the touch of sand.  
  
She was jarred back to reality as her husband gripped her hand, tugging gently so she might follow. She couldn’t decide much about him, as he spoke very little. But his demeanor was amiable enough and he was certainly handsome. Eowyn made sure Lothíriel was well versed in her betrothed’s various moods, ranging from the occasional facetious comments to the raging storm of his anger. The Queen of Rohan hoped she would not have to experience that first hand for a long time.  
  
~  
  
Éomer found his palms sweaty as the evening waxed and waned. His wife’s skin remained cool to the touch as he escorted her through the crowd. He wondered privately if she was as nervous as he. For he knew that soon he would have to take her to bed. Glancing to the side, he caught sight of Prince Imrahil, talking with his guards. Guiding Lothíriel to him, he left her in her father’s company, assuming they had much to speak of. Éomer made his way to where the tankard of ale stood and was unsurprised to find his captains, Gamling and Elfhelm, there.  
  
“Your thoughts?” the Marshal asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder.  
  
“She is fair, Elfhelm,” the King replied with a shrug.  
  
“Quiet, though.”  
  
"Better than a chatty maid," Gamling answered with a shudder. "Some of those women have mouths like fish." Éomer and Elfhelm chuckled as Gamling demonstrated the women’s mouths, opening and closing his comically. “I say, my lord, better to have a quiet, complacent woman than a yapping one."  
  
Éomer found himself in agreement. His friends picked up two mugs of ale, to which the young King declined. He spent another hour with his captains, trying to appear as much of a King as he felt he lacked. But all too soon he felt the air in Meduseld become stale and thick. He excused himself of their company to outdoors. The night sky was endless, filled with stars. Éomer stood on the stone terrace that led into the Golden Hall, listening to the sounds of merriment within.  
  
"Such a serene night, my lord." Éomer turned to his left to see Lothíriel several feet away. He hadn’t even noticed her presence.  
  
"Yes, it is." He answered, watching her. Grey eyes gazed at the scenery, her expression placid. A gentle breeze stirred her skirts and lifted her hair from her shoulders. She was a lovelier bride than he could have imagined for himself. Perhaps he would grow to love her.  
  
"I am told the winters here are terribly cold.” Her voice carried with the wind, pleasant to his ears.  
  
"They take time to get accustomed to," he agreed. Turning to her, he glanced at the doors leading into the Golden Hall. "Shall we retire, my lady? The festivities will continue long into the night." She looked at him for the first time, and he caught a spark in her grey eyes. But it disappeared as she closed her eyes and when she opened them, it was gone.  
  
"Of course, my lord."


	2. Patience and Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

She sat on the bed, uncoiling her hair from atop her head. Her movements were slow and deliberate, taking time to un-plait the thick strands. Éomer stood before the full-length mirror, watching her in the reflection. Truly, their children would be handsome. It did, however, bother him that his wife seemed so detached. He wished there was some way to connect with her to make this easier.  
  
Turning around, he crossed the floor to sit at the desk. Removing his ceremonial wedding attire, he chanced another glance at her. With her hair unbound, Lothíriel looked as ethereal as Arwen. But her face was narrower than the Queen of Gondor’s, with high cheekbones and a defined jaw-line. She met his gaze, her grey eyes guarding her thoughts well as she tucked a lock of midnight hair behind her ear.  
  
He ran his fingers through dark blonde hair, watching her as she pulled the pins from her tresses. Previously captured locks tumbled from their restraints, falling with buoyancy. Éomer stood and walked to the other side of the large bed. The only light in the chamber was given by a candle on either side of the bed. The soft flame illuminated his wife’s serene face. Éomer dropped his eyes to the ground.  
  
“If you do not wish to do this tonight, we do not have to,” he murmured, turning to look at her. “I have been taught never to take a woman against her will and would not wish to hurt you.” He caught the edges of her lips pulling into a small smile.  
  
“Thank you, my lord.” Her expression softened slightly in the dim light. “But I am prepared to do my duty as wife and queen.” She paused for a moment, gauging his visage. “Besides, if we do not, there will be talk of barrenness…” Lothíriel trailed off, leaving an unspoken thought in the negative space between them. She was right, he realized. The servants would know tomorrow if their union had not been consummated and Éomer could not fathom having to deal with gossip about sterility.  
  
Lothíriel pulled her legs into the bed and blew the candle on her side out. If she was nervous, she hid it well. He somewhat admired her courage. Drawing a quick sigh, the King followed his wife’s example, snuffing the final candle and stretching into bed. He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to get aroused like this, so they lay in the darkness for several moments. He listened to her steady breathing and found it soothing. He tried to imagine her without clothes and felt a slight stirring in his groin. He reached for her, his hand resting on her hip.  
  
“May I?” he asked stupidly. He could almost imagine her smiling in the dark. She took his hand, bringing it to her breast and he felt her heart beat beneath the thin fabric of the nightdress. He closed his eyes and repositioned himself on top of her. He lay braced upon his forearms, one on either side of her head and he opened his eyes. Her grey eyes watched him as she pulled the dress slowly past her knees, thighs and waist. He settled between her legs, praying he would not hurt her. She gave a single nod to him.  
  
He slipped into her, feeling her warmth envelope him. Her hand grasped his forearm tightly as her eyes closed quickly, a pained moan repressed in her throat. He held himself there, terrified that he’d somehow injured her. He watched her, bathed in the faint moonlight, a tear glistening in the corner of one eye. Her body lay taut beneath him, her fingers pressing against his skin. After a moment, he felt her body relax slightly.  
  
Éomer released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as his wife became more comfortable with him. He wanted to wipe away the tear, which made its way down the side of her face as she opened her eyes. They masked her thoughts from him, but he knew she had been in pain. She turned her face to the side, grey eyes staring out the window, gazing beyond the White Mountains, seeing what Éomer could not.  
  
After he was certain the tenseness was gone, he began to move slowly. His hips thrust rhythmically, feeling the desire build within him. She felt pure and welcoming to him, though he knew she didn’t feel the same way. He found himself wishing he could give Lothíriel some pleasure. He felt her smooth thighs on either side of him, holding him to her gently. Her breasts pressed against his chest as she breathed deeply. Her back arched instinctively as his release came. He buried his face in the crook of her neck as the waves calmed. Inhaling her scent of lavender and sage, Éomer felt at peace. Her silky hair brushed his cheek and he smiled against her skin, losing himself to the moment. Everything was forgotten to him except this feeling.  
  
~  
  
She hadn’t expected him to be so gentle. And yet, when she felt the pain, it was so indescribable that she couldn’t help but grasp his arm and shut her eyes. She had heard her fair tales of the first night in the marriage bed. She’d been told stories of men who threw their wives against the bed and forced themselves into the women. She grew up with a fearful curiosity of the marriage bed. And when that moment finally came, she was shocked that he’d been so patient. Was not the lust of a man untamable? Even the most placid of husband could find himself uncontainable while in the throes of passion. At least, that’s what she’d heard.  
  
But her husband had waited for her. He waited until she found her breath and her muscles eased. It still hurt. It was not something she would have done on her own will, but she was aware of her responsibility to her husband, her new country and to her family. It was her duty to produce an heir that would unite Gondor and Rohan in a tangible alliance.  
  
Although she felt only a slight twinge of pleasure, his release caused her to arch and gasp. He lay against her, breathing heavily, his fingers entwined her hair. It seemed that he was completely oblivious to everything as he pressed his lips to her neck. His touch sent sparks down her spine and she knew she would regret the moment he left.  
  
~  
  
Éomer fell back into reality, recognizing his selfishness. Here he was with his beautiful wife who’d found, at best, minimal pleasure and he was soaring above the clouds having completely forgotten about her. With a sigh, Éomer realized he was still inside and on top of her. He withdrew gently and rolled to the side, her hair sliding like water from between her fingers.  
  
"Good night, my lady," he whispered. She lay still for a moment before turning quietly from him and pulling the covers to her shoulders. Éomer drifted into a dreamless sleep.  
  
  
  
The sunrise fell upon the young King’s eyes as he stood by the window. He was naked, save for a pair of britches. Éomer rested an arm on the window arch and glanced back at his sleeping wife. She looked like a statuesque goddess, her face flushed in the morning light. Her dark hair fanned out upon the white pillow in lovely waves. The rise and fall of her chest was peacefully slow in slumber. He admitted to himself that Lothíriel was a beautiful woman and he was blessed to sire her children.  
  
* * *  
  
Éomer’s day was consumed with meetings, the festivities of last night forgotten. After sending Prince Imrahil off with his guards, the young King was bombarded with various tasks and duties. Things had to be done, arrangements made. Éomer King stared at the maps before him, each one more detailed than the previous.  
  
"The farmers of East Emnet lost a year’s worth of crop and much of the soil,” Elfhelm murmured. Éomer stared at the ink and paper, hoping it would give him some idea as to what to do.  
  
"Our own supply dwindles, my lord. I cannot imagine we would have enough to feed our farmers as well."  
  
The King pushed away from the table, the legs of his chair grating against the floor. He cursed under his breath, wishing for an easy solution to this. He dismissed his men, as the meeting had lasted a good two and a half hours. Staring at the maps, Éomer slumped into his seat, alone in the Golden Hall. It would not sit well with him to ask Aragorn for the extra food. As it was, Minas Tirith suffered its own depression with more the half the city being decimated. No, he could not do such a thing. His pride would not allow him to ask the King of Men for help. Éomer conceded that he was King and he would have to discover a way to save his people. It was his responsibility.  
  
“My lord?” Shaken from his reverie, Éomer turned to see Lothíriel behind him, holding a plate of food. “They said you were not to be disturbed, but you haven’t eaten in many hours.” She did not appear timid or nervous, but rather strode into the hall and moved the maps to the side, placing the plate before him. He glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. Her hair was braided and pinned in a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her dress was a lovely dark green with silver trim. Her expression was unreadable, but pleasant. He began to eat the food and she turned. He leaned to the side and caught her wrist gently. She paused to look down at him.  
  
“Will you join me, my lady?”  
  
“As you wish, my lord.”


	3. Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

It became their routine. After his morning councils, Éomer would eat lunch with his wife. Sometimes his Captains would be present, other times they would dine alone. In those next weeks, the young King found himself enjoying the company of his beautiful and quiet consort. He spent most of his time in her absence, riding through the villages and consulting with his men. He did not know what she did with her spare time but imagined she sewed with the other women of the court and performed womanly duties that were expected of the Queen.  
  
Their evening meals were taken in the company of the court, with Éomer’s men and their wives present in the Great Hall. Lothíriel preferred to converse with the men, Éomer noticed. She tried to avoid the women and spoke as little as possible when she had to talk to them. Why, he wasn’t sure.  
  
But the truth was that, behind her back, Lothíriel was slandered as the Gondorian queen who knew nothing of the Rohan people. The women gossiped that she ensnared the handsome King with her spell and now sought to weaken him. They hypothesized that she would steal his child and return to the sea, leaving him lovesick and wounded. Lothíriel knew of these rumors, but said nothing on the subject. All Éomer knew was that it was difficult for her to adjust to the Rohirric lifestyle. He imagined it would take a while for his people to become accustomed to their new Queen.  
  
The rest of their routine was monotonous. Éomer worked late into the night at his desk with only a solitary candle for light. By the time he lay in bed, Lothíriel was asleep on her side of the mattress. He knew she wanted to stay up to welcome her husband to bed, but he often he worked so late that she fell asleep. He felt a pang of guilt for this, but there was nothing he could do. The work had to be done.  
  
The sunlight streamed through the high windows as the wind swept through the valley, whipping against the houses of Edoras. Éomer, Lothíriel, Elfhelm, Gamling and three other men of the King’s council sat together enjoying their food. They ate in silence, each in their own realm of thought.  
  
“My lord,” all heads turned to the Queen as she spoke. “Does Edoras have a healer?”  
  
“Does my lady think we are so barbaric not to?” Gamling snapped, but quickly shut his mouth. Éomer caught a glimmer in Lothíriel’s grey eyes before it faded.  
  
“No. Of course not,” she murmured.  
  
“We do, my lady,” Elfhelm answered congenially, dispelling the tense air. Lothíriel turned to Éomer.  
  
“My lord, if I have your permission, I would like to spend my time during the day there. I find the womanly arts a bit too tedious and I spent a large part of my life in Gondor’s Houses of Healing.” The King listened until she finished and nodded.  
  
“I do not see why not.” He said, taking a drink from his mug. “My sister tells me in her letters that you are well missed in Gondor. She writes that you were known for your healing gifts.”  
  
“Certainly your sister embellishes,” Lothíriel replied with a small smile. “True, I have always enjoyed helping others, but that does not require gifts of any sort.”  
  
“My lady Eowyn does not embellish, Lothíriel Queen,” Gamling said quietly in attempt to remedy his previous outburst.  
  
“Well I thank her for saying such.” The woman offered him a gentle smile, which he returned broadly. Éomer smiled as well. Perhaps things were looking better for them.  
  
~  
  
Lothíriel pulled the cloak closer to her body as she made her way down the steps of Methuseld. The sky was a pale blue, lazy clouds floating across the vast expanse. While she missed the ocean horizon, it was impressive to gaze at the White Mountains and endless plains. She could grow to be rather fond of Edoras.  
  
She followed the line of houses until she reached the one indicated by Lady Berewyn an hour before. Lothíriel thankful for the woman’s kindness toward her, but she could not imagine spending another day sewing in the company of the Rohirric women, most of whom never met Lothíriel’s eye. She knew it seemed conceited to just remove herself from the group, but it didn’t matter as much as those women pretended it did. But Lothíriel was glad Ivriel was welcomed there. She and Lady Berewyn had become quick friends, which pleased Lothíriel immensely. Ivriel had given up just as much as her charge had when leaving Dol Amroth. At least she’d found a friend here.  
  
The door to Master Falas’ home was a thick slab of wood that required several hard knocks to be heard. Lothíriel waited on the doorstep glancing at those who passed her. She was easily picked from a crowd with her height and dark hair. She smiled and acknowledged the people until the healer opened his door. He was aging man, bent over slightly from years of hunching above patients. His once blonde hair was white at the temple and sparse. His dark eyes met hers as he fell into a clumsy bow. “Oh, my lady Queen,” he muttered hurriedly, bowing again.  
  
“It’s alright Master Falas,” she said quickly, placing a hand on his arm. He looked up at her, white eyebrows rising. Blinking, he ushered inside the house, which seemed more appropriate with the title of hovel. The only light present filtered through two grimy windows and cast pearly rays here and there. The space was thick with the fragrance of herbs, spices and books. There were boxes, pots, herbs and other such clutter in the small space, making it difficult to find a place to stand. “What is it I can do for you, my lady Queen,” he queried, scurrying around the limited space, picking up a broom, setting it down, arranging a mess of papers, removing a stack of parchments from a chair and offering it to her. “Are you ill?”  
  
“No Master Falas, I am not. But I was wondering, hoping really,” she paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Would it be possible if I could help you?”  
  
“Help me with what, my lady?” the old man appeared incredulous, having stopped mid-tidy to look at the young Queen.  
  
“Oh, anything you might need assistance with,” she replied, waving her hand lightly. “I spent most of my childhood with the healer of Dol Amroth. I know something about the art of healing and I have found a passion for it. Perhaps I could be of some help to you, with the ill…” She watched him in the dim light, trying to judge his reaction. At first, she thought she might’ve said something incorrectly in Rohirric, because the old man looked confused.  
  
“Help me?” He repeated. The Queen nodded. Falas rubbed the grey stubble on his chin thoughtfully. Truthfully, he had never had an offer for assistance, especially from a woman. A queen, even. “I suppose that would be quite welcomed. The winter is drawing closer and I could use an extra pair of hands. That is, my lady, if you don’t mind cleaning wounds and making teas.” “Not at all,” she answered with a smile. Finally, she thought. A place I feel somewhat at home.  
  
~  
  
That night, Éomer sat at his desk, reading through the archive of past kings. He hoped to garner some sense of what to do to help his people. Winter would come soon and with the state his country was in, many of the farmers and their families would not survive to see the spring. Frustrated, Éomer closed his eyes, surrendering his head to the palm of his hand supported by his elbow, which rested on the table’s surface. Finding only a moment’s solace in the cradle of his hand, the King looked up and rubbed his tired eyes.  
  
He heard the bed behind him stir. He listened as Lothíriel vacated the bed, her quiet footfalls echoed by the sheet that was draped around her and dragging behind. She knelt beside his chair, one hand on his shoulder as she surveyed the mess of papers.  
  
“Is it possible to bring the farmers to Edoras for the winter?” she asked, her voice soft in the night air. Éomer looked at her as she stared intently at the desk.  
  
“I do not think Edoras could hold so many, my lady. But it seems terrible that they should perish…”  
  
“They won’t,” she said quickly. Éomer’s eyebrows rose with surprise. Lothíriel was usually placid in her manner, but the spark of passion she displayed made the King of Rohan smile slightly. She glanced at him and frowned. “That will not happen, my lord. There must be a way to either help them sustain through the winter or relocate them temporarily until winter’s end.”  
  
“I welcome any suggestions,” he murmured, his dark eyes watching her keenly. She sighed quietly and stood.  
  
“It is hardly possible to think, let alone make decisions at this hour of night. Come to bed,” she said, retreating into the darkness. Éomer blew the candle out and followed her.  
  
  
  
The next week progressed with little change. Éomer found himself without any solution to his problem. But he was pleased to see his wife with the healer. She spent most of her days with the old fellow, helping him. Lady Berewyn took it upon herself to watch over the young woman, should the gossipers say anything vicious. Lothíriel’s own attendant, Lady Ivriel, kept with Berewyn and was slowly learning the language of Rohan. Berewyn had always been a compassionate soul. Éomer was grateful for the aging attendant who had been so kind to Eowyn and now Lothíriel.  
  
The King wrote to his sister as often as he could. She was pregnant and extremely active in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. She congratulated him on his marriage and told him that she knew for a fact that Lothíriel was a good match for him, for she’d met the princess before her departure to marry him. It gave him a bit of relief that his sister thought they were well matched. Because as much as he liked her company, he wasn’t entirely sure he loved Lothíriel. He envied the love between his sister and her husband, Aragorn and Arwen, even his own parents. In her letter, Eowyn advised his brother to get to know his wife... "I know from certain experience that it is very difficult to acclimate to a new home with new people. Ask her what her life was like at home. Inquire into her past and I’m sure your bond will be strengthened."  
  
Éomer sighed and put the letter down. He knew she was right. He felt a surge of guilt for not taking the time to get to know his wife. But he’d been so busy and he was sure she did not want to tell him her life’s story. Perhaps that could wait.  
  
The King made his way back to his chambers. It was a little past midday after lunch and he wanted to collect his pile of letters from the desk. He was slightly embarrassed that Lothíriel had to see the place in such disarray, though she never said anything. He tidied the area up and was passing the privy when he heard the sound of someone gagging. Éomer paused at the door, listening to the agonizing sounds of a person vomiting. He set the papers down and tapped his knuckles against the door gently, causing the door to open.  
  
Inside was Lothíriel, kneeling on the floor, her face bearing a sickly tint. Éomer rushed to kneel beside her, his eyes searching her face for an answer to an unspoken question. Before she could say anything, she turned and wretched into the toilet, coughing after. Éomer stood and stepped out to their room. He poured a glass of water from the pitcher beside the bed and returned to his wife, who had struggled to her feet. She accepted the water gratefully, draining the glass quickly.  
  
"I’m sorry, my lord,” she rasped, her voice hoarse.  
  
“There is no need to apologize. But, is everything alright?” it seemed like a stupid question to ask, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.  
  
“Yes,” she replied quietly. Then, a thought occurred to him.  
  
“Are you with a child?”  
  
“Yes,” she confirmed. Éomer was at a loss at what to do. He was thrilled at the possibility of an heir, but it seemed inappropriate to touch her. So he smiled slightly and took the empty glass from her.  
  
“That is good news,” he mumbled hurriedly, turning to set the glass on the table.  
  
“My lord, would you mind keeping this from the rest of the court?”  
  
“As you wish. But why?”  
  
“Your people are still… getting used to me. I do not wish to further burden them with this. Not yet,” she looked at him, grey eyes pleading. Éomer offered another weak smile and nodded.  
  
“Of course, my lady. Is there anything I can get you?”  
  
“No, but thank you.”  
  
“Then I shall take my leave.” Éomer left her standing by the privy as he rushed away, forgetting the papers and his task.


	4. Plans and Nerves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day. Éomer and his men rode out to make note of the boarders. The Dunlendings were becoming more aggressive since Éomer had returned from Gondor. He knew they had a slim chance of surviving the winter, since most of their homes were destroyed by default during the War. This perturbed the King because not only was there the fear of losing his people to the elements, but also to the threat of unhappy Dunlendings. He’d considered moving some of his farmers to Helms Deep for the winter, but abandoned the idea at the will of his advisors.  
  
“Dunlendings passed through here just a few days ago, my lord,” a man called back to Éomer. The middle-aged scout had been in the company of Théoden and was well known for his tracking abilities. He now knelt in the brush, indicating to the footprints that Éomer could barely see from atop his horse.  
  
“There isn’t much we can do now,” the King murmured, turning Firefoot slightly to face the imposing mountain range. “Let’s hope they have enough to worry about on their own without disturbing our people.” He doubted that, but it was all he could offer to his men. The scout nodded in agreement and mounted his horse.  
  
“The sun sets,” Gamling noted. “We have been out later than usual.”  
  
“There is more to contend with than usual,” Éomer responded, more to himself than Gamling. Then again, he considered, usual was a relative term. “We will return after the stars are bright in the sky. You are dismissed to your homes and I will see you in the morning,” the King told his men with a curt nod.  
  
They rode back to Edoras as night claimed the sky. After seeing to his steed, Éomer climbed the steps to Meduseld, each step bringing him closer to a decision he dreaded making. He didn’t have an answer to the question that plagued him. He often wondered what Théoden would do, were he alive. He’d have found a way to save all of his people. Éomer pushed the door open heavily. His supper sat alone at the end of the long table. He was a bit surprised to eat without his Queen or her attendants and called for a maid, who came scurrying from the kitchen.  
  
“Where is my wife?” he asked as he sat down.  
  
“Unwell, my lord. She asked that you eat without her tonight.” The girl curtsied and left Éomer alone. He ate slowly, contemplating the obstacles he faced. Realizing his thoughts had stripped him of his appetite; he beckoned a servant to take the plate away. He stood with his mug of ale and walked to his chambers. A fire burned in the bedroom as he closed the door behind himself. Lothíriel sat at his desk, looking at the maps of Edoras. Éomer’s eyebrows rose at this as he continued into the room. At least she looked better than she had that afternoon, her skin returned to its natural colour.  
  
“How are you feeling, my lady?” his voice startled her and she jumped. She’d been so engrossed with her work that she hadn’t even heard him enter.  
  
“Better, thank you,” she replied, turning to look at him. “How was your ride?”  
  
“Unproductive,” he answered with a scowl. Wanting to forget such things, he walked to her side, looking over her shoulder. “You have the layout of the city?”  
  
“Yes. And I noticed that this edifice –” she pointed to a fair sized building just beyond the barn, “is not used for anything.”  
  
“It was built by my uncle and was meant as storage, I believe. But it was never put to use. I suppose, by now, the structure is somewhat lacking.”  
  
“I visited it this afternoon,” she said, staring at the parchments. “It has not completely fallen into ruin. A bit of work and it will be what it once was.”  
  
“A means of storage?”  
  
“No.” she turned to look at him, grey eyes illustrious in the muted light. “I would like to turn this into a healing ward.”  
  
“My lady?” Éomer knelt next to her, looking into her eyes, perplexed.  
  
“The winter is fast approaching and, with so many of your farmers in need of food and shelter, it seems there will be need for one. Your healer, skilled as he is, cannot hold more than two people in the confines of his home. There should be a place in which the ill are tended to and cared for.”  
  
“I see the merit in that,” he murmured. “I was impressed while in Minas Tirith. The Houses of Healing saved my sister’s life, along with the lives of many warriors. But Falas is old, my lady. He can barely tend to his own needs in his failing age. How can we expect him to care for so many people?”  
  
“I would help,” she answered. “I have had enough experience in Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith and here. And I can teach some of the young girls.” She watched him, awaiting his decision. He had to admit, it was a prudent idea. Éomer briefly recalled earlier days when winter maladies befell the villagers and they died without even seeing a healer. He met his wife's gaze and shrugged one shoulder.  
  
“You do not need my permission,” he said after a moment. “You are Queen, after all.”  
  
“But you know your people better than I.” Grey eyes regarded him solemnly. He stood up and nodded.  
  
“Then I think it is a well conceived plan. If you need help with anything, be it the rebuilding or furnishing, notify me and I’ll see to it you are provided with what you desire.”  
  
~  
  
What she desired was to go home. She offered him a smile of appreciation and turned away. He walked back to the bed as she collected the maps and returned them to their folders. Sitting with a clean desk before her, Lothíriel placed a hand on her stomach. It was too early for any person to tell she was pregnant. But she knew. She’d missed a cycle and she felt ill every morning. Lothíriel had spent enough time in the Houses of Healing to recognize her own body’s signs of a babe growing inside of her.  
  
She felt a surge of excitement. She was going to give birth to the child of Éomer son of Éomund, King of Rohan. But she also found herself saddened by this. She longed to return to Dol Amroth and tell her brothers in person. Already she sent letters to her siblings and father. Her pregnancy was joyous news, she knew. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of unhappiness. She hoped it would fade as the pregnancy progressed.  
  
“My lady?” Lothíriel turned to the bed where her husband sat. She realized she must have looked a bit ridiculous, staring off into space. Standing, she unbraided her hair and then joined him in bed. He glanced at her, his eyes moving from her face to her abdomen, which was still flat, bearing no clues as to what was growing within.  
  
“Congratulations, my lord,” she murmured, leaning back against the pillows. He met her eyes, a surprised expression painted on his handsome features.  
  
“It is your child as well,” he replied. She felt a faint blush spread to her cheeks, which made him smile slightly. With a gentle nod, he turned and blew the candle out.


	5. A Pleasant Moment Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Éomer woke with a start. Glancing to the sky beyond the window, he realized it was earlier than usual. He felt his wife’s body lying beside him, her back to him. Her shoulders rested against his chest and her legs lay touching his. He reveled in her warmth, dreading the cold he would have to face when he left the bed. Now that he knew she was pregnant, he made a silent promise to get to know her more deeply. Her father had mentioned her sharp wit and love of books, but Éomer was not yet privy to her mannerisms. He regretted not taking the time earlier to make her feel more at home, enough at least to allow her to feel comfortable.  
  
He shifted to the side, making ready to leave their warm bed. Lothíriel roused, turning to face him. She was beautiful, her hair laying in ebony waves around her head, lids heavy with sleep. There was a faint blush to her cheeks and her lips looked utterly enticing to the King. He offered her a smile and pulled the covers to her neck.  
  
“Go back to sleep, my lady,” he whispered. She frowned, her black brows furrowing as she sat up, leaning against her elbows.  
  
“Are you unwell, my lord?” she asked, her voice sliding through the morning air like velvet.  
  
“No,” he replied. She watched him as he pulled the warm boots on and shrugged the thick cape over his shoulders against the cold. Moving to the fireplace, he arranged last night’s embers and lit the kindling. He felt her cool eyes on him as he walked to the washbasin.  
  
“What are your plans for the day?” she inquired quietly. He was momentarily surprised with her curiosity. Splashing the water into his face, he rubbed his neck, feeling the stubble of his beard.  
  
“I have a meeting with Elfhelm regarding the Dunlendings,” he answered. He was sure there would be more to it, but he didn’t wish to burden her with banal information.  
  
“Could I trouble you for a favor?”  
  
“Anything, my lady.” He turned to look at her, the question piquing his interest.  
  
“Would you take a ride with me? Not for too long,” she added quickly. “I have missed your company and it would be pleasant, I think. But I understand if you are too busy. Certainly your priorities are well defined and I would not wish to -”  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” he said, smiling. She returned the smile, her expression softening. “I was going to check the weapon inventory this morning after breakfast, but I much prefer your suggestion.”  
  
“After breakfast, then.”  
  
Said meal was taken in the company of Éomer’s Captains and Lothíriel’s attendants. The young Queen informed Gamling about the art of boat handling. Éomer smiled to himself, for it seemed his wife was acclimating better to her surroundings. Her personality seemed to have blossomed, as he hoped it would have.  
  
“Most assuredly, my lady, I have never set foot on a boat, let alone handled one.” Gamling grinned broadly as the Queen laughed softly.  
  
“It is not much different from handling a horse. Only, it is a bit bigger and you are not sitting astride.”  
  
“A good thing, that,” Éomer put in with a smirk at his friend. Lothíriel glanced at him, her grey eyes sparkling with mirth.  
  
“Indeed, my lord,” Gamling muttered, making a face at the thought of himself straddling anything made of wood.  
  
After breakfast, Lothíriel excused herself with her ladies. Éomer sympathized, since she’d probably gone to wretch her food up. No doubt pregnancy pains were nuisance and he admired women for what they had to put up with.  
  
He made his way to the barn to groom Firefoot in preparation for the ride. He found himself looking forward to spending time with Lothíriel, He figured it would be the opportune time to do as Eowyn suggested and get to know his wife. Carefully brushing his horse’s coat, Éomer allowed himself to ponder his troubles. The Dunelendings were causing more trouble than they were worth. It seemed they found a way to evade him every time. There was also the problem of orcs. Faramir had written him a letter detailing the bands of miscreant orcs that lurked in the mountains north of Ithilien. This proved a problem if they moved farther west and beyond the mountain range, for they’d then be on Rohirric territory. And that was the last thing the young King needed. The thought of orcs pillaging the already frail villages made Éomer scowl deeply, his hand tightening on the curry.  
  
“Be ware, my lord,” a voice said behind him. “You might brush his hide right off.” Éomer turned to see Lothíriel leaning against the stall door. Firefoot immediately sought her out, looking for treats. She smiled and pulled a carrot from the deep pockets of her blue riding dress. The horse relieved it of her quickly, chewing contentedly.  
  
“You’ve made a friend for life,” Éomer said with a light smile.  
  
“Then I am glad, for he seems a good friend to have.” The woman scratched between the equine’s ears, ruffling his forelock slightly. His large doe-eyes closed blissfully and he extended his head toward her in a droll fashion that made Lothíriel laugh.  
  
“Difficult to believe he’s a war horse and not a lady’s riding pony, with the way he’s acting,” the King muttered. She laughed again and Éomer grinned, realizing how much he liked her laugh. “Shall I have a horse saddled for you, my lady?” A single black eyebrow rose at this question.  
  
“If it is alright with you, my lord, I will put the equipment on my own horse.”  
  
“Of course,” he replied. She turned away and he heard her walking down the aisle to where her horse, Dergh, waited. Within a few moments, husband and wife were leading their horses into the sunlight. Éomer recalled her riding into Edoras on the large bay stallion, which impressed him greatly. Surely she must be a skilled rider to handle such a big horse with that kind of flighty nature. They mounted and Dergh reared back on his hind legs slightly as the Queen sat astride in the saddle. She blushed slightly as those around her stopped to look.  
  
“He’s young still,” she explained to Éomer. “He hasn’t been trained properly and has a tendency to be a bit capricious.”  
  
“So it would seem,” the King answered with a chuckle. Together, they trotted through the main street of Edoras and past the open gate into the open land of Rohan.  
  
~  
  
“Tell me, my lady, of Dol Amroth. What is it like?”  
  
“It is beautiful,” she answered. She smiled at his reaction, his lips curling into a bemused smile as they trotted through the sweeping golden grass. “Well, I think so. And I have a certain bias.”  
  
“Understandably so,” he agreed, encouraging her to continue with another smile.  
  
“It faces west, onto the Bay of Belfalas. In the evenings, it is lovely to watch the sun set over the water,” she closed her eyes momentarily, drifting back to those summer days. “My brothers and I loved to ride our horses across the beach, through the surf and waves. As a child, I would take a satchel full of books from my father’s library and tie them to my saddle, right here,” she reached back and indicated to a leather tie on the tack. “I would take them to the beach and read for hours on end. One time, I lost such track of time that I was nearly underwater when high tide came in.”  
  
The King laughed, most likely imagining a young Lothíriel, her dress soaked as she struggled to keep the pages from getting wet. That was the way of it. And how angry was Lady Ivriel when the girl returned, dripping with seawater in her attempts to her beloved books! She received a firm scolding for that incident. But Lothíriel knew Ivriel didn’t mind as much as she dramatized.  
  
“I would very much like to see it,” Éomer said quietly. Lothíriel glanced at him and nodded.  
  
“It is a very agreeable place.”  
  
“What do you think of Rohan, my lady?”  
  
“It is vast.” She hesitated, trying to find the appropriate words. She did not want to upset or insult him. “The scenery is pleasant to look upon and the people are warm, to be sure. I wish I had spent more time learning Rohirric.”  
  
“You speak it very well, my lady.”  
  
“Thank you,” she replied with a faint blush. “But I fear it takes poor Falas a few tries before I can understand him fully,”  
  
“That old codger,” the King scoffed with a snort. “His own people, myself included, have a terrible time attempting to comprehend his speech.”  
  
Lothíriel laughed, enjoying the feeling of a genuine amusement. She slowed the petulant horse to a walk as her husband followed suit. She looked at him, taking note of his relaxed demeanor. He seemed increasingly tense these past weeks, his shoulders slouching slightly and his expression constantly a frown. It always helped her brothers when they were stuck in a mood to go riding. There was something about the company of horses that lessened anxiety, at least for the time being.  
  
Éomer’s visage was calm, his eyes on the horizon. She liked seeing him riding without his stiff armor. He looked so very natural atop Firefoot, one hand holding the reins loosely, the other resting on his thigh. He was certainly impressive to look at, a true lord of horses. He glanced at her, and chuckled nervously.  
  
“Is there something in my hair? A leaf or twig perhaps?”  
  
“Pardon?” she blinked, confused as he laughed.  
  
“You were staring at me. I figured there was some comical aspect of my appearance.”  
  
“Not at all,” she answered, feeling her cheeks burn. He smiled and guided his horse around a rabbit hole.  
  
“My lady?” Lothíriel turned to him, his voice slightly more somber. She nodded, indicating him to continue with his question. “Was this your choice?”  
  
“You do not recall me asking for your company on this ride?” she asked with a small smile. He smiled as well but shook his head.  
  
“I mean the marriage. Was this your choice? Was there another man?”  
  
“My father and King Elessar conceived of the idea, but it was ultimately my decision.”  
  
“Why, if you don’t mind me asking.”  
  
“No, of course not. I suppose I felt a responsibility to my people. This union would create long lasting peace between our lands after many years of shadow. I believe what people need most right now is material confirmation of amity, especially between Rohan and Gondor. Our marriage is a starting point. My father proposed the concept he and King Elessar created, but wasn’t going to force me into it.”  
  
“I am glad you choose this,” Éomer murmured.  
  
“Are you?”  
  
“Yes, my lady. I can think of no fairer woman I could have married. And, from what your father says, you are also politically confident. I had hoped for a wife with whom I could leave the care of Edoras.”  
  
“Leave indefinitely?”  
  
“No,” he paused, visibly surprised. “But I wanted a Queen who could take command of my land if I were absent.”  
  
“And I am this woman?”  
  
“I think so.”  
  
“I hope not to let you down then,” Lothíriel replied quietly, allowing the reins to slide through her fingers so Dergh could stretch his neck.  
  
“I don’t think you will,” he assured her. “But do not be afraid of saying what is on your mind. Prince Imrahil also mentioned your sharp tongue.” The young woman felt her cheeks burn even more with that statement.  
  
“Only when I have cause to use it, my lord.”  
  
“You’ve had no cause yet?”  
  
“My father instructed me not to offend or otherwise irritate you or the members of your household with my occasionally facetious manner.”  
  
“It is welcomed,” he said with a deep laugh.  
  
“Then fear not, Éomer King,” she replied with a smile. “You’ll taste the sting of my ‘sharp tongue’ soon enough.”  
  
“I look forward to it, Lothíriel Queen.”


	6. Painful Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

In the days to come, Lothíriel and Éomer spent their time together in a congenial, enjoyable manner. The young King was pleased to sleep beside his lovely wife and wake up beside her. They continued eating lunch together, though her pregnancy illness kept her from eating as much as he would’ve liked. She was his solace through the difficulties that loomed above him.  
  
The Dunlenders were Éomer’s most grievous concern, but they remained at large. It frustrated him to no end that his éored was unable to catch the miscreants and hold them accountable for their mischief. And the ever-increasing letters from his brother-in-law and sister illuminated the problem of orcs. If they were spreading away from Mordor, they would not hesitate to use the White Mountains. With the Dead Army disbanded and the Paths of the Dead abandoned, Éomer dared not guess what might now lurk in the shadowy orifices of the mountains.  
  
The King of Gondor also sent his regards with warnings about bands of orcs roaming the lands. He felt convinced the creatures would not travel across the open lands of Rohan, but the evil that leaked from Mordor after the Ring’s destruction could not be completely accounted for. Éomer counted himself lucky to not have to contend with the foulness of Mordor so close to home, as well as a damaged city.  
  
When he was not out with his riders or in a council meeting, he was helping his wife with her venture. The vacant building his uncle had erected was not in terrible shape. Éomer and several of his men dedicated an afternoon to fix the roof and secure doors. It was really more like a barn, with a long floor and loft that stretched the length of the structure.  
  
After the men patched the wood and made the building secure, Lothíriel enlisted the help of three young girls from Edoras, along with Falas. Together, the five of them put up dividers. Lothíriel called on her memory of the Houses of Healing and how they were designed. While this edifice was not as large or as accommodating as its predecessor in Gondor, it would function. They erected partitions, albeit flimsy, to divide the stores, kitchen and sick rooms. They furnished the place with cots and bedding from Meduseld’s cellar. The whole interior arrangements took all of a day to set up.  
  
Éomer was increasingly impressed with wife’s skill and ability. Not only was she a scholar, as her father so proudly mentioned, but she was also an apt leader. She spent the majority of her days with the three girls, teaching them the medicinal properties of herbs, roots and plants. She and Falas had the girls schooled in wound treatment and sanitization. Éomer could see the woman Lothíriel had been in Gondor finally show herself here and it pleased him greatly.  
  
The King of the Golden Hall sat beside his wife in bed one evening as she read over the herbal inventory, making marks every now and again. He was reading a book she’d given him from the Dol Amroth library. While he wasn’t entirely fond of reading, he found the book highly enjoyable and was glad she’d brought it with her. Every now and again, he would steal a look at his beautiful wife. Her hair hung loose down her back in silky waves. The white night-dress was illuminated in the firelight, as were her grey eyes when they caught him staring.  
  
“Are you well, my lord?” she asked, putting the parchment down. He kicked himself mentally for gawking at her like a youth and smiled.  
  
“I’m fine, my lady. But it is late. Why don’t we retire?” He put the book down as she nodded. Standing, she proceeded to put the book on the study desk. He glanced up when he heard her wince. Lothíriel stood with her hand on the desk, the other touching her abdomen lightly.  
  
“Are you alright?” he asked, alarmed.  
  
“Yes, of course,” she answered lightly, gesturing for him to remain in bed, as he already had his feet on the ground. He eyed her and she smiled, returning to the bed. “It was nothing. A cramp.”  
  
He didn’t answer as she blew the candle out. Lying in the darkness, Éomer listened to his wife as she settled into sleep, her back to him. Allowing himself to be convinced with her answer, he turned on his side and welcomed sleep.  
  
His dreams were bloody. The murder on the Pelennor Fields haunted his psyche, causing him to toss and turn. His allies and enemies alike stood before him, bleeding and broken. Their deaths replayed over in his mind, the shrieks of battle overwhelming him. He longed to wake and find they were but dreams, mere memories and nothing more. But the screams did not die in his ears. They were loud and sorrowful, painful to listen to.  
  
Éomer woke with a start, willing the noise in his head to cease. But it did not. He realized the screams were coming from his room. He looked beside him and Lothíriel was gone. Stumbling out of bed, his eyesight marred from sleep, he tried to follow the sounds of the screams, tripping over his cloak. He landed on his side as his vision created images of his wife on her knees. The screams were hers. Éomer tried to move to her, but the cloak had tangled itself about his feet and he watched in the dim light as his wife cried out painfully.  
  
“Lothíriel,” he called to her. The door slammed open as two guards and a maid rushed in, the maid holding a candle. The guards assisted Éomer to his feet as he watched the maid try to discern the cause of Lothíriel’s pain. As the light of the candle passed over her dress, he saw blood covering the front, and trailing down her calves. Her moans continued as the maid called for more help. Several other women, Lady Berewen and Lady Ivriel among them, came in with horrified looks painted on their tired faces. In the mess, Éomer was half escorted half pushed out of the chamber. When he tried to reenter, the door was shut in his face.  
  
\----  
  
She had never experienced such pain. Such absolute pain it threatened to destroy her vision and shorten her breath. Her consciousness was arguable as she felt people touch her and strip her of the nightdress.  
  
The awful ripping sensation in her lower body kept her from thinking rationally. When she was a child and she was injured, her brothers told her to think of something she loved and hold onto that thought and not let it go until the pain was gone. Memories of Dol Amroth danced in front of her eyes as she concentrated on the ocean. She saw her first pony galloping across the sand, her wild mane catching the sea breeze. The mare had been a present from her father and she’d cherished the little thing until the day it’s leg broke from a fall.  
  
Lothíriel imagined her pony trotting down the hallway in the summer morning. How angry her father had been to see a horse in halls of Dol Amroth with none but the Princess astride!  
  
‘This is not Rohan,’ he cried upon seeing her. ‘We do not simply ride our beasts of burden about the place. Have you gone mad, child?’ But the smile overtook his face as his eyes twinkled merrily. Certainly he had allowed her to finish her ride, as long as she promised not to do it again. It upset the nobles and, Valar forbid their feathers get ruffled.  
  
“Ada,” she whispered, tears spilling down her cheeks. She couldn’t comprehend the pain she felt or why she felt it. She didn’t chance to open her eyes again, for fear of what she would see. She allowed her mind to drift to other things: her brothers playing with wooden swords in the courtyard, Prince Imrahil lifting his daughter above his head so she could see farther than he into the horizon, her feisty stallion in the stables below, Éomer. His dreamlike presence behind her closed eyes was comforting. His deep eyes smiled to her as his lips followed suit, a boyish charm about his countenance. He was her final vision before the darkness took its claim.  
  
\----  
  
Éomer’s heart was beating erratically as he stood in the dark vestibule. Gamling stood to the side, watching his King worridly. But he didn’t want the young monarch any more concerned than he was already,  
  
“Perhaps she is having a painful cycle,” he offered. Elfhelm shot him a glare, as the King shook his head.  
  
“I do not think it is so,” he answered dejectedly. Gamling was about to suggest a mug of ale when the door to the chamber opened. Éomer almost knocked Elfhelm over as he strode toward the maid, who’d shut the door curtly behind her.  
  
“What is it? What’s wrong with my lady? Is she well? Will she live?” Gamling was certain he’d never seen Éomer so nervous. The maid’s tired eyes blinked through the barrage of questions and she held a hand up.  
  
“My lord King,” she started and pulled in a deep breath. “My lady is alright. But she has suffered a miscarriage.”  
  
Éomer turned from the girl, staring blindly at the wall. Behind him, Gamling shifted uncomfortably and Elfhelm placed a hand on Éomer’s shoulder.  
  
“Did you know she was pregnant?” he asked quietly. Éomer nodded mutely as the maid glanced between the two men.  
  
“May I see her?” the King asked after a moment. He didn’t bother to meet the girl’s eyes, but kept them firmly placed on the stone.  
  
“Not at the moment, my lord,” she murmured, glancing warily at his clenched fists.  
  
“Thank you,” Elfhelm said kindly to her. She ducked her head and darted away. Gamling dismissed the guards as the women filed from the room silently, carrying soiled bedclothes and linens. Lady Berewyn and Lady Ivriel were the last ones to leave. Lady Berewyn stood beside the King, keeping her eyes averted from his.  
  
“She will live, my lord.” Her voice was raw from giving orders. Her hands were bloody and her brow was filmy with sweat. “She is young and strong. I would have her moved from you bed but that she is too weak to move. I am sorry to have to displace you tonight.”  
  
“Can I see her?” Éomer asked through clenched teeth. Lady Berewyn’s brow furrowed in what Gamling thought might be disapproval.  
  
“She is asleep right now, my lord.” When Éomer said nothing, she curtsied and left. Elfhelm glanced at the closed door and back to his friend, who hadn’t moved an inch since the news had been given.  
  
“Come, my lord,” he said gently. “You may take my bed. I’ll sleep in the cot.” Éomer allowed himself to be led from his chambers, only to cast a final look at the room that held his Queen from him.


	7. A Dark Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

She saw beautiful scenes behind closed eyes. Memories and premonitions of flowering fields and gently sloping hills in the green summer. She lay in the sea grass watching the sky above, as blue as the ocean at dawn. She listened to the waves as they crashed just beyond her line of vision. Turning to her side, she smiled as she watched a child running across the sand, his little legs carrying him with great speed. His hair was dark, though the fiery tones caught the sun majestically. He splashed in the water, delighted at the feel. Lothíriel’s smiled widened as the boy giggled, looking at her with deep brown eyes.  
  
He turned away from her and ran across the shoreline. Sitting up, she dusted the sand from her clothes, watching the child. He ran toward another figure that swept him up into strong arms. The child squealed gleefully as the man laughed. His hair was dark blond and his eyes glowed with happiness. He caught her gaze and grinned. She felt completely at peace here, watching them with a smile on her face.  
  
Waking with a start, Lothíriel sucked in a deep breath. She was in a dark and dank place. She lay on a mattress, not sand and the sounds of a fire burning replaced the memory of the ocean. It came back to her slowly, waking up beside her husband with stabbing pains in her abdomen. Afraid to wake him, she’d crept from the bed when a painful spasm took hold of her. She recalled various moments of semi-conscious vision in which she saw the King being led from her room, Lady Berewyn supporting her with gentle but firm arms.  
  
She couldn’t understand her pain. Perhaps it had been a pregnancy pain, or she’d eaten something foul. Turning to the side, Lothíriel groaned softly. The chamber was dark, save for the low embers in the fireplace. Only then did she notice a shadowed form sitting beside the bed, slumped in a chair – either asleep or dead. Figuring it was a maid or guard, Lothíriel reached her arm to wake the person. Upon touching his knee, several things occurred all at once. A hand grabbed her wrist as the man jumped from his seat. Lothíriel cringed beneath the figure’s shadow, confused and shamefully scared. Where were her attendants? Where was her husband?  
  
The man released her wrist immediately, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His face finally withdrew from the shadows and Lothíriel found herself staring at the King.  
  
“My lady,” he rasped, his voice a distressed whisper. She hadn’t realized it, but she’d tensed from the moment he’d touched her and was leaning as far away from him as she could manage. She could see the hurt and self-loathing in his eyes as he looked at her with great concern. “I’ve hurt you.”  
  
“No,” she answered quickly, furious at herself for acting like a child. He averted his gaze, obviously doubting her words. Lothíriel paced her hand, which was now level with his shoulder, on his upper arm gently. “You haven’t hurt me.”  
  
He looked at her with dark brown eyes, his expression somber and unreadable. Lothíriel forced a smile, but winced at the effort it took. His eyes narrowed with worry, but she squeezed his arm gently, willing him to relax.  
  
“I must have suffered a heat spell,” she said quietly, hoping to dispel his concern. “I apologize for what happened.”  
  
He looked at her, his eyes glazed with an emotion she couldn’t discern. Was it fear? Or dread? He took her hand in his, rubbing her knuckles softly as he stared at the floor beneath his knees. Her confusion mounted as he kept his silence. There was something he knew that she did not. Why was he sitting beside her in the dark? Where were their servants?  
  
“My lord?” she asked tentatively. He sighed and glanced at her.  
  
“My lady,” he started. She encouraged him to continue by covering his hand with her own. “Falas and Lady Berewyn say you have suffered a miscarriage.”  
  
He looked up at her, judging her reaction. His words felt like arrows hitting heavily against her. She stared at him, her lips parted, pupils dilated. Certainly this was some joke. Eowyn had said her brother was notorious for his dry wit. But the expression on his face conveyed no humor.  
  
“I have lost the child?” she asked stupidly. Éomer looked away, obviously displeased. Lothíriel felt her heart sink as the weight of this fact came crashing upon her. What good was a Queen if she could not produce an heir? The young man looked as though he were going to continue when the door creaked open. Ivriel slipped in side, and gasped in surprise when she saw the King kneeling beside her lady. Flustered, she dropped the tray she’d been holding, scrambling to pick the items up. Éomer stood stiffly at the interruption as Ivriel begged his forgiveness. Lothíriel sat up, intending to help the woman, but a dull ache in her middle arrested her movements. Both Éomer and Ivriel moved towards her, each trying to keep the Queen from moving. Ivriel retreated as Éomer lay his hand on Lothíriel’s shoulder.  
  
“My lady,” he whispered tightly.  
  
“My apologies,” the lady-in-waiting squeaked. The King turned to her and bent down to collect the items which had fallen. “I did not expect to see you here. I thought you were with my lord Elfhelm. If I’d known -”  
  
“Lady Ivriel, it is alright,” the man assured, handing her the tray. His voice, Lothíriel thought, held a tautness to it, devoid of warmth. Before she could stop him, he bowed awkwardly and left.


	8. Name Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Of all the stupid things he’d done… Éomer paced the floor of the Golden Hall as the sun illuminated the large room. It was almost midday and the King had been completely unable to concentrate on his council meeting. They decided to adjourn earlier since the issues weren’t being addressed with a complete council. Elfhelm took Éomer’s place in the daily ride. He and his men had just left, allowing Éomer some time to himself.  
  
Many of his subjects assumed he had been restless due to the encroaching threat of the Dunlenders. Truthfully, he was concerned about the increasing aggressiveness of their mischief, but his mind and energy was focused on Lothíriel. He had hurt her, more than physically. He rarely considered himself a cold man, but her touch that roused him from sleep brought a side of him into the light. After years of sleeping outdoors in the service of Théoden King, Éomer had grown accustomed to waking at mere touch of another being’s hand.  
  
But his reaction had scared the both of them. How could he have perceived her touch has hostile? He was livid with himself, recalling her bewildered and wary expression. And then to have to give her the tragic news… it was almost too much for him. But he realized, as he stood in a ray of blinding light, that he longed to see her again. He needed to see her and assure himself that she was alive and would not vanish before his eyes.  
  
Walking to his chambers, he thought back on the previous night.  
  
Unable to sleep he left Elfhelm’s room, wandering about the dark citadel with fleeting memories on his mind. He’d watched those he loved slip away from him like sand through fingers. His parents, cousin, and uncle, not to mention numerous companions. Even his dear Eowyn had left him. But he was happy for her. The love she found in Faramir was well deserved and he wanted only the best for her. He remembered dreaming of marrying a lovely woman and having a brood of children in Rohan. Nothing of Rings, hobbits, war, or kinghood. In his dreams, Theoden lived a long reign and his son followed him to the throne. In his dream, Eowyn wed a local noble and lived in the same palace as her brother. And Éomer would still be a Rider of the Third Mark. Not king of the entire land.  
  
Agitated by unwanted memories and dreams, Éomer walked quietly down the dark hallway toward his room. He listened first to hear if any of those bellicose women who’d shooed him away earlier dwelt within. Satisfied with the silence, Éomer entered the room. In the bed lay his wife, her skin seeming paler than usual in the firelight. He closed the door and stoked the fire a bit. Figuring it would be inappropriate and uncomfortable for Lothíriel if he climbed into bed beside her, Éomer placed the chair from his desk beside the bed. Sitting down, he watched his wife sleep. Her lips were drained of their colour and her eyelids were a faint blue. The covers lay over her chest, which rose and fell steadily.  
  
He was relieved she’d survived. He had heard stories of women who died of a miscarriage. He prayed they were only tales, especially when the news was given to him. It would be awful for the psyche of Rohan if its Queen died so soon and so young. Éomer realized it would be awful for his psyche. Lothíriel was his foundation. In her he found his strength. And while she probably never imagined it, she’d set a course to heal him of his battle scars.  
  
And there he had ruined her hard work by grabbing her wrist and scaring the very wits from her. He remembered the feel of her bone beneath his fingers, his skin pressing into her flesh with blind aggression. He shuddered at the thought.  
  
He knocked on the door to his chambers. A voice bid him enter, which he did promptly. Inside, Lothíriel sat on a bench beside the window as Lady Berewyn plaited the Queen’s hair. Lothíriel looked physically better. Her skin had returned to its healthy whiteness and her eyes shone dimly beneath long lashes. Lady Berewyn also looked substantially improved since the last few nights. The attendant dropped into a curtsy (but not before she secured her lady’s hair) and left the room, closing the door behind him.  
  
Lothíriel turned to look at him, her face soft in the sunlight that filtered through the crocheted window drapes. She wore a dress of dark blue that hung nicely from her slim shoulders. Despite being slender, she was not without curves, which Éomer noted the moment he’d seen her on their wedding day. Her hips curved gently and her breasts were generous. She had smooth skin that neither clung for life on her bones nor bunched beneath her in rolls. She was well proportioned for her height and he recalled the strength of her legs against him when they had consummated their union.  
  
“My lord?” she queried, an eyebrow raised slightly. Her voice was quiet, and he could hear how she strained to not rasp.  
  
“I apologize,” he mumbled, coming further into the room. She made to stand but he gestured for her to remain sitting. Looking away, Lothíriel folded her hands on her lap placidly.  
  
“What is it you would have me do, my lord?”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“With regards to the lost pregnancy,” she stated, her tone controlled and detached. It was his turn to raise eyebrows. There was something brewing behind those seemingly serene grey eyes and he was positive he would find out soon.  
  
“My lady – ”  
  
“My name is Lothíriel,” she snapped, catching him in a strict glare. She stood up angrily. “Lothíriel! I was born with a name. So if you’ve come to express your displeasure then at least do me the honour of saying my name!”  
  
Éomer was stunned into silence as he stared at her. If she’d been a man, he would have surely yelled back at her, but his surprise overruled his ire. The Queen’s expression melted from furious to horrified. It was clear she’d been speaking in the passion of the moment, careless of the words she let slip. She sank back to her seat with a thud, her eyes glassy.  
  
“I apologize, my lord,” she whispered.  
  
“Why would I be displeased?” he asked softly, his confusion getting the best of his shock. She glanced up at him but quickly averted her gaze to the window.  
  
“The ladies said… they said you were furious that I could not keep the child alive,” she murmured, her voice stiff and emotionless. Éomer stood dazed as she continued. “They said you would send me away as soon as I was well.” Lothíriel glances at him again as he tried desperately to control his annoyance for her sake. The gossiping nature of some women was beyond reason.  
  
“Well they are wrong,” he muttered firmly. “I have never been cross with you. Especially not in an evil hour such as this. I am terribly sorry I could do nothing to help. As it is, I seem to have done more harm than good.”  
  
She locked her eyes on his and he saw the hurt in her eyes dissolve, replaced with gentle compassion. For him. He was disgusted with himself at that moment. She gulped in a breath of air and he wondered if she would cry. But she held herself together and he marveled at her strength. Standing stiffly, the Queen made to walk toward the door, but her breath hitched in her throat and her legs buckled.  
  
Éomer was there in two strides, catching her before she collapsed to the floor. Her arms clung tightly to him as her body convulsed in sobs. Her head was buried in his shoulder as he lowered them both to the ground. He wrapped his arms about her shaking form, pulling her closer to him as she cried. Her breaths were heavy with pain as she wound her fingers through his hair and held on to him. He held her fiercely, as if to protect her from everything beyond his arms. Her sobs subsided to deeper breaths as she struggled to calm herself. Éomer’s hands soothed her gently, rubbing her back and arms.  
  
She laid against him, turned away from the sunlight, her hands on his shoulders and neck. He planted his lips against her silky hair and kissed, tasting the herbs she used in the healing house. She turned her head slightly so it rested against his chest. He could feel the wetness of her tears soak his shirt, but he didn’t mind. He drew one leg up slightly so she could lean her back against it as he held her. He whispered softly to her in Rohirric, words his mother used to comfort him with. Her breathing became normal and he felt her heartbeat against him still from its quick pace.  
  
After a moment, she pulled back slightly to look at him, making ready to apologize. Éomer caught her face in her hands and ran his fingers across her tear-marred cheeks. Her eyes were wide, grey irises watching him with appreciation and relief. He felt the moisture of her tears on his fingertips and smiled.  
  
“There is no need to ask for forgiveness,” he whispered to her. “You have done nothing wrong.”  
  
“Aside from sully your shirt,” she replied softly. They smiled, the first real smile that made his cheeks warm.  
  
“Yes, aside from that. So do not think I will allow you to apologize.” His expression grew serious as he regarded her. “This is not your fault. I am not angry with you and I will not cast you out. We will try again,” he assured her, but paused. “That is, if you still wish to. I know I haven’t been much of a husband of late.”  
  
“You have been a King. And that is a responsibility that accounts for many lives. So it is a fair sacrifice.” Her voice was mellifluous in the midday atmosphere. Her grey eyes sparkled from beneath their lashes, watching him with genuine interest. After a moment, his wife untangled herself gently from his arms and stood up, straightening the dress, which had wrinkled itself. Éomer stood as well, seeing that only a tiny patch of his own fabric bore any sign of her tears.  
  
“I’m afraid I have to leave you,” he murmured, truly regretting this. “I have been absentminded since you fell ill and must make up for that. But I’ll return to dine with you, later this evening.”  
  
“I look forward to it,” she replied with a smile. Her voice had returned to its velvety resonance as she moved away from him, picking her discarded book from the bench. “Once they deem me ready to leave this room, I think I shall return to the healing house and visit my horse. How has he been?”  
  
“Feisty,” Éomer answered with a grin. “None of the lads can ride him around the paddock without suffering bruised backsides.” The Queen smiled fondly at the image and nodded.  
  
“Very well. I shall deal with that beast. Now then, you must return to your duties. Do not let them think their Queen from Gondor has bewitched the King and turned him from his royal tasks.”  
  
“Indeed,” he said, walking to the door. While she said it in jest, they both knew the possibilities of wagging tongues and the precarious pedestal they were momentarily on. Éomer prayed his people would accept and even grow to like their Queen as he had. “I take my leave then. I shall see you soon for supper, Lothíriel.”


	9. Closeness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Éomer spent as much time as he could spare with Lothíriel. He felt guilty about what the women had said to her. The last thing he wanted was to drive her away. He also felt ashamed that his concern for her was partially borne from fear – that she would die and leave him alone. He wanted to believe that he truly cared for her life on a sympathetic level. But he knew, deep down, he didn’t want her to abandon him because he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle it.  
  
And then there was the matter of the lost child. He grieved in private, not wishing his wife or his subjects to see his distress. When she’d told him of the pregnancy, he’d felt joy beyond his expectations. Now he watched that happiness dissolving, withering away with each moment. Éomer feared Lothíriel would not get pregnant again. The old healer, Falas mentioned that women sometimes suffered too terribly to conceive again. He hoped it was not so with Lothíriel.  
  
He sat across the room from her in the evening as she read. Tomorrow she would be allowed to leave the chambers, something he knew she was pleased about. Her eyes were focused on the pages before her as Éomer watched her from his desk. Records lay before him, waiting to be reviewed and noted. Winter would be upon them in less than a week and there was still the problem of the farmers and poorer folk of Rohan. He had been able to move some of his people to Aldburg, at least until the snow melted. But Edoras was already full. He feared the harshness of the season to come with new intensity. As a Rider, he’d only been concerned about himself, his men and his horse. But as King, his priorities were increased tenfold.  
  
“You seem forlorn.” his wife's voice woke him from his reverie. He shrugged slightly and glanced back at the papers. “Worried about winter?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“How many families do you believe need shelter and food?”  
  
“Gamling counted at least twenty-five in the land around Edoras,” he answered dejectedly. Lothíriel pondered this for a moment before speaking.  
  
“Could they not sleep in Meduseld?” He looked at her, his silence eliciting a response. “Surely it can hold at least fifty. Cots could be set up in the storerooms where it is warm. Perhaps the women and girls could work in the kitchens and the men could lend a hand in the barn or elsewhere.”  
  
“I don’t know,” he replied. She put the book down and gazed at him.  
  
“Why not? It will be a bit overcrowded, yes. But it should be warm and they will survive at least.”  
  
“That is the best option I’ve heard yet,” he said to her. She smiled slightly in the candlelight.  
  
“When I was a child, Dol Amroth had to house a good two hundred people from a western village, which was destroyed by the sea in a storm. I remember watching them, spread out on the grand marble floor of the Grey Hall. They were all so brave.”  
  
“We would need to bring the people in swiftly,” Éomer murmured, more to himself than her. She nodded.  
  
“Yes. I shall alert Falas, as I imagine there will be many more sick folk than usual. I will also notify the staff to prepare bedding and food.”  
  
“You plan and analyze as well as any of my council members,” her husband said with a grin. “You should have been born a man.”  
  
“Were that so, this would be a rather ineffective union.”  
  
\----  
  
Lothíriel woke early beside her husband. She heard his deep breathing beside her and, wanting not to wake him, slipped from the bed. Her heart nearly skipped a beat when her bare feet touched the frozen stones. Hopping quickly to the rug, the Queen pulled her robe from chair she’d left it on last night. Shrugging the warm garment on, she walked to the window quietly. Standing before in the dim light, she gazed at the pale sky as the sun rose slowly. How unlike this place was from her home in Gondor! She missed watching the sun set beneath the ocean. She wished she could take Éomer to see it. Wrapping her arms around herself, she recalled her lost child. The darkness of her memories crept slowly into her pleasant thoughts, making even the sunrise seem fetid somehow.  
  
She felt hands on her upper arms and warmth against her back. Glancing to the side, she caught Éomer in her peripheral vision standing behind her, his eyes on the plains of Rohan. Despite the cold, he was naked save for trousers. His hands on her arms were gentle as he stood but a hair’s breadth from her.  
  
“I remember looking out upon this scene as a child,” he murmured to her. She followed his gaze across the golden countryside, the low grass rippling in the morning breeze. “Soon this will be covered with snow and unbelievably cold.” Lothíriel shuddered at the very thought and she felt a low rumble in Éomer’s chest as he chuckled. “Wear many layers and you will be fine.”  
  
She turned to face him, his dark eyes staring down at her. She was perhaps two inches shorter than he and decided it would be a comfortable fit if she were to embrace him. She smiled slightly and sighed with a quietness of the moment. Her thoughts since the miscarriage had revolved around how best to leave Edoras with her dignity, for surely he would throw her out as the ladies surmised. But he did not wish her departure. In fact, he had shouldered some of the responsibility. ‘Lothy, you lucky woman,’ she scolded herself silently. ‘You have a wonderful, respectful man for your husband! You’ve done better than most princesses in this agreement.’  
  
“What is wrong?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with concern. She realized she’d become fond of the tiny lines that etched themselves at the edges of his eyes when he laughed or worried.  
  
“Nothing,” she answered quietly. He stared at her for a moment before looking away.  
  
“May I ask your forgiveness?” he inquired, his voice noticeably more controlled.  
  
“Regarding?”  
  
“My behaviour. I want you to love Rohan as much as I do. I want you to be happy.” She almost responded with ‘I am happy,’ but hesitated. She wasn’t and there was no reason to make him believe otherwise.  
  
“It will come in time,” she said, repeating the assurance her father had given her before they’d left Dol Amroth. What she would give to see him right now. She’d sent a letter to him and her brothers notifying them of the miscarriage. She knew Éomer had written to his sister about it. But letters were empty vessels unable to carry the weight of her emotions. She longed to sit with her brothers on the sand. Telling them there would be far more cathartic than doing so in some letter.  
  
“Of course,” he agreed, though she doubted his confidence. But she was touched by his concern. From his expression he didn’t seem pleased with the way that had gone.  
  
She placed her hand on his cheek, feeling his warm skin beneath her chilled fingers. His eyes immediately met hers as she felt her body lean closer to him, wanting to touch him. He met her halfway as he leaned his head down. Her lips met his as she tilted her face to accept a kiss. The movement of his lips against her caused her to rotate her head slightly, giving him better access to her mouth. His hands slid from her arms to her shoulders and then to their separate ways. One wound through her thick hair, grasping it and supporting her head gently. The other hand skimmed a path down her side, resting finally on her hip.  
  
His mouth was heated above hers and his kisses were ardent. He pulled her close to him with the hand on her hip and she moved her fingers from his cheek into his hair. Her other hand held his upper arm as he stepped forward into her. The closeness of their bodies warmed her skin and made her smile inwardly. His fingers held her black hair, letting it flow around his hand and wrist as he ran his other hand from her hip to her lower back. She felt his heart beneath his skin, beating almost as quickly as her own.  
  
She felt his fingers run along the ridge of her spine beneath the material of the nightdress until his hand reached her backside, which he held, pushing her further into his body. His fingers grasped the fabric of her dress, scrunching it into his palm until it began to rise above her calf. All the while, his kiss deepened passionately, her lips parting to allow him more direct access to her mouth, which he took appreciatively. The dress was almost to mid-thigh when a knock on the door jolted them from the moment.  
  
Éomer straightened, breaking the kiss. His fingers untangled themselves from her hair as he let the skirt of the nightdress fall back to the floor. Lothíriel stepped around him and gathered her robe around herself as she walked to the door. Cracking it, she saw a maid with a tray of food. The Queen thanked her and took the tray from her, declining the maid’s offer to kindle the fire and tidy the room. Shutting the door with her foot, Lothíriel brought the tray to the bed and lay it down. Éomer had retreated to the wooden wardrobe to fetch a shirt. She watched the muscles in his back pull taunt and relax as he tugged the shirt down. He was extremely handsome in the morning light, she realized, with his hair tussled from sleep. He turned to face her with a serene expression. Only his lips, which were slightly flushed, gave any indication of their previous actions. He offered her a gentle smile before donning the cloak.  
  
Lothíriel turned to her own clothing cabinet and selected a warm dress for the day. It had been Eowyn’s, according to Lady Berewyn. It was dark brown, modest and well insulated. She decided, given the cold weather, that her riding boots would be sufficient for the day. She returned to the bedside with the dress in hand. Glancing up she realized she was alone in the room. Éomer must’ve slipped past her while she’d been admiring the dress. She smiled as she touched her bottom lip, remembering the fervent way he’d claimed her lips and longing for it once more.


	10. Getting Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

The days went by slowly, but progressively. Lothíriel divided her time between the Healing House and the barn. Only a select few knew of her miscarriage and they sold her bedridden days off as feminine pains. Lothíriel doubted the silence of the women’s tongues for any period longer than a month, but they would deal with that when the time came.  
  
She thought about the baby more than she was willing to admit. Her dreams consisted of the child’s face, strangely androgynous, but beautiful nonetheless. Sometimes her baby would have blond hair, other times dark hair. She felt undeniable love for him, but the sorrow was often overwhelming. She’d wake with a start, feeling the sting of tears behind her eyes, but they never spilled. She couldn’t tell if that was a strength or weakness.  
  
Éomer was wonderfully sensitive of her, making sure she was comfortable and safe. While she appreciated his attention, the limit on her freedom was slightly irking. In Dol Amroth, Lothíriel could walk the quiet shores of the sea without a horde of attendants. She and her brothers would take long rides into the hills unaccompanied knowing their father didn’t mind a bit. But this was not Dol Amroth.  
  
Lothíriel folded a blanket, glancing at the sun as it dipped below the window’s view. Éomer and his men were collecting the villagers and bringing them to Edoras. The King and his council had accepted her plan, though there were aspects she hadn’t thought of, such as where to keep the toddlers and babies. Lothíriel and Gamling spent several hours the day before planning the layout of the makeshift refuge. The tables and chairs would be placed in a separate halls and the eating space had to accommodate more people than usual. Gamling suggested folk bring their own cook-wear and the like, since it was doubtful Meduseld had enough to cater to so many people.  
  
“My lady?” Lothíriel turned to see a woman with an armful of blankets. “Where shall I put these?”  
  
“Over there, Cellwyn,” she answered, indicating to the pile of bedding. The woman nodded and placed the blankets on the precarious mound. Lothíriel, Cellwyn and the other women had been working tirelessly for hours preparing the halls. Lothíriel left the bedding and sat down on one of the remaining benches in the room.  
  
“Come, Cellwyn,” Lothíriel said gesturing to the bench space beside her. The flaxen haired woman sat beside her Queen, watching her with a curious expression. “You’ve all worked so hard. A moment of respite is well earned.”  
  
“Thank you, my lady,” Cellwyn replied with a smile. She looked to be in her late thirties, though the lines on her face made her appear far older. Lothíriel had been working with her in the Healing House for the past few days. She liked Cellwyn’s positive attitude and attention to detail. Lothíriel returned the smile and sighed.  
  
“Hopefully this winter will not be terribly harsh,” the younger woman mused, smoothing her dark green skirts with one hand.  
  
“It’s hard to say, my lady.”  
  
“Indeed.” Lothíriel listened to the other women talk as they worked across the room. While this may not have been the best idea, it would keep those vulnerable to the elements safe, at least, for this winter.  
  
“Are you unwell, my lady?” Lothíriel’s grey eyes met Cellwyn’s brown eyes, clouded with concern. The Queen blinked, surprised by the question. The blonde woman ducked her head, cheeks reddening. “You seem distant.”  
  
“Just thinking,” Lothíriel assured her. Cellwyn nodded and reached down to pick up a stray blanket. As she extended her arm forward, the sleeve of her dress rose above her wrist, exposing bluish bruises on her skin. Stunned, Lothíriel caught Cellwyn’s wrist gently in her hand. “What happened?” she asked, indicating to the abrasions. Cellwyn’s blue eyes widened as she followed the Queen’s gaze. With a frown, she pulled her appendage from Lothíriel’s gasp and shrugged one shoulder.  
  
“A trifle of an accident.” She smiled weakly and stood. “I ought to be more careful.” Before Lothíriel could inquire further, the woman slipped away, leaving for the kitchens as the deep horn sounded.  
  
Éomer had returned.  
  
Walking outside into the chilly weather, Lothíriel watched from the stone veranda as the Rohirrim came through the gates. There were citizens of Rohan behind them, making a line as they came up the dirt street. Some people walked, others rode in small wagons and others still rode horses. Lothíriel began to worry where they would put the extra livestock as Éomer caught her gaze from the gate of Edoras. He nodded to her, reining Firefoot in to help an elderly man with his horse. Turning from the approaching party, Lothíriel directed the servants to prepare food and warm drinks. Several minutes later, the doors opened to the Golden Hall. Éomer and his company of men entered, escorting the group of villagers.  
  
“Hail, Éomer King,” Lothíriel greeted her husband.  
  
“Hail Lothíriel Queen,” he answered. Those behind him bowed or curtsied in her presence. He offered her a quick smile as she turned to help the women with their satchels. Many had brought the remaining food in their homes, along with their other earthly possessions. She allowed the ladies of Edoras to guide their sisters to the room where they could freshen up before supper. Lothíriel came to stand beside her husband as he stared the men of the group.  
  
“Bedding and the like are provided,” she said, nodding to the pile at the end of the Hall. “I understand this is a bit unpleasant, but I assure you will be warm and fed here.”  
  
“Thank you, my lady Queen,” one of the older men said, bowing deeply. He had black eyes that held a lifetime’s worth of knowledge and his smile was genuine. Though his hair and beard were grey, he was robust and in shape with the physique of a soldier.  
  
“This is Aldon,” Éomer said to his wife. “He and my uncle knew each other as lads when Aldon lived in Edoras.”  
  
“Well met,” she addressed the hardy looking man, who bowed once more. She inclined her head gently with respect before stepping to the side and speaking to the others. “Now please, allow the servants to bring you all warmed cider. Supper shall be served forthwith.”  
  
So it was, crowded as they were, that the first night of their long stay began. Éomer and Lothíriel ate with the people, listening to stories and enjoying the evening. Though there was still much to be done, Lothíriel decided that would be tomorrow’s work. They would have to distribute jobs to the newcomers and help them get settled. But not today.  
  
That evening, in their room, Lothíriel sat before the window as she unbound her hair. Watching the moon hang lazily in the sky, she wondered what her father would think of her in these past weeks. She wondered if her brothers missed her as much as she did them. It was inconsolable, the desire to go home. But she would endure, if not for herself then for Éomer.  
  
“My sister used to do that.” Lothíriel turned to see Éomer sitting at his desk, his eyes on her. She raised an eyebrow in question and he smiled. “She used to sit gazing into nothingness. You could pass your hand before her face and she’d barely flinch.”  
  
“You miss her,” Lothíriel observed quietly. Éomer looked down at the papers before him, a sigh passing between his lips.  
  
“Just as much as you miss your brothers.” He glanced up at her and smiled, but it was glazed with sadness. “Yes, I do miss her. But I take comfort that she is happy.”  
  
“That is a good comfort,” Lothíriel agreed. They sat in a moment of comfortable silence before she looked at him. “How does Rohan handle abusive husbands?” Éomer’s eyes met hers as she saw him sit up a little straighter.  
  
“Why the question?”  
  
“I believe one of the women in the Healing House, Cellwyn, is being abused.”  
  
“But you aren’t certain.”  
  
“No,” she admitted. “But the bruises on her arm look much too similar to hand prints for me to simply disregard them.”  
  
“I see,” Éomer nodded, brow furrowing. “Well I will not have an abusive man in my eored. But until you are certain these bruises are his doing, I hesitate to confront him.”  
  
“I understand.” Lothíriel stood, her hair unbraided and falling down her back in soft waves. She felt Éomer’s eyes on her as she walked to the bed. Getting in, Lothíriel pulled the covers to her hips, shivering despite the fire. Éomer frowned and abandoned his work.  
  
“You are still cold?” he inquired, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. She noticed he wore a loose shirt untied in the front and riding breeches. She wondered how he could possibly stay warm, as she was quite possibly frozen.  
  
“I suppose I am not used to such dreadful cold,” she answered hesitantly. She didn’t wish him to worry over her wellbeing, especially with the dilemmas he had to manage. He took her cold hand in his warm ones and rubbed gently.  
  
“I’m sorry it is so.” His voice was quiet and pleasing to her ears as he looked at her hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”  
  
“Your ministrations are as good as any,” she replied with a smile.  
  
He was close enough to her body that she could lean forward but a few inches and touch his chin with her lips. She slipped her hand from his and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. He looked at her and she caught a flame of passion in his dark eyes. Before she could say anything, his lips claimed hers and his hand was on her cheek. She felt the roughness of his flesh and reveled in the difference of texture as she tilted her head slightly. Accepting the heat of his mouth, she brushed her fingertips across his jaw, the short coarseness of his beard pleasuring her skin. Her other hand slid beneath the shirt, pulling his shoulders toward her until his torso was practically laying on her. He pulled away slowly, looking at her as she sat propped up by the pillow, his weight against her.  
  
“This wasn’t part of my ministrations,” he confessed wryly. Lothíriel smiled and pulled him closer.  
  
“No. It’s part of mine.”


	11. Intimacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Éomer met his wife’s lips again, intrigued and aroused by the chill of her skin. His hand wove through her hair, reveling in its touch. It wasn’t silky smooth, but thick and velvety. Her skin smelled of herbs and he’d grown rather fond of it as her nose brushed his. He pulled her up as he sat up, holding her to him as he continued the kiss. Everything about this woman was intoxicating and he found himself unable to select a better adjective to describe her.  
  
Adjectives aside, he ran his hand up her arm and across the back of her neck were the ties of her dress were located. Tugging gently at the loosely tied strings, he felt the pressure of the dress slack across her shoulders. He felt her hands on his arm and face and he enjoyed her touch thoroughly. He shifted his position, never breaking the kiss, pulling both legs onto the bed, straddling her legs and rising above her on his knees, his neck craned down. He pulled away for a moment to gaze onto her beautiful face. Lothíriel’s eyes were closed, her breath soft against his skin. She opened those grey eyes and brushed her fingers across his cheekbone. Knowing he could postpone his desire no longer, he descended upon her lips swiftly and fiercely. She met his intensity with her own, pulling him down to her.  
  
Her taste made him weak as he moved closer, felling the swell of her breasts against his rib cage. Their clothing needed to be removed, he realized. Running his hands across her shoulders, he slid the material of her dress down her arms until it pooled at her waist. His lips moved from hers to feel their way across her jaw and down her neck. Her hands drew the hem of the shirt up his stomach and chest. He removed his lips from her to throw the garment off his body, careless of where it landed. All he cared about was returning his lips to Lothíriel’s skin, which he did promptly. Her hands ran across his back as he leaned forward. He felt her fingers trace the scars on his flesh and he took pleasure in the softness of her touch. His lips moved lower, flowering across her collarbone as her head dropped back, black hair falling down her back, pooling in his hands. He reached her perfect breasts, but before he could fully enjoy them, he would have to lay her down.  
  
Rising back to her lips, he kissed her again, holding her head as he pushed her to the mattress gently. She was like silk beneath him, her hair fanning against the pillow. Eager to the resume his attention to her skin, Éomer used his lips to retrace his path down her neck. When he reached her breasts, her back arched, bringing them to his mouth. She moaned and he felt it resonate in her chest as he continued. her hands wound through his hair and against the back of his neck as he felt her softness beneath him.  
  
After so many long years of suffering the elements and hardship, Éomer’s body had almost forgotten the smoothness it had once owned as a child. Even feather beds denied him that small appreciation, but Lothíriel’s skin was a remedy. He quieted her moans with his mouth, longing to taste her once again. His hand ran from her shoulder across the peak of one breast, down her smooth stomach to where the dress still lay gathered at her hips. She smiled against his lips as he tried to remove it and she quickly wiggled herself free of it. Éomer deepened the kiss appreciatively as his hand continued its journey.  
  
He felt the wonderfully soft skin of her hips, curving beneath his hand as she drew one leg up. His memory of her strong thighs was rekindled as he felt the muscles beneath his fingers. He loved the paradox of her strength and tenderness, completely in harmony. Sliding his hand down her inner thigh, he met her heated center. He felt her eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he kissed her when his fingers swept over her softness, damp with pleasure. He felt his own desire straining, beating in his blood as he realized his pants were still on. Cursing to himself, Éomer tried to remedy the situation without leaving her gorgeous lips. But alas, she was the smarter being. She caught his face in her hands and broke the kiss.  
  
He pulled away slightly, trying to mask his disappointment. She smiled warmly and pushed him up until he sat above her. Fumbling to get out of the wretched britches, he looked down at his patient, beautiful wife. Her hair lay on the pillow like a dark halo and her lips were flushed. Her breasts were perfectly formed, rising and falling as she breathed and he couldn’t stop admiring her. He squirmed and fidgeted ungracefully until the pants had been removed. She grinned at his success and pulled him down to her again.  
  
They wasted no time as he felt her legs flank his lower body. He eagerly resumed kissing her as he felt her warmth against him. He paused, remembering the last time they’d done such things. She must have noticed his hesitation because she brushed her lips against his cheek to whisper against his ear.  
  
“I am yours,” she said, the huskiness of her voice sending shivers down his spine. She gave him an encouraging nuzzle as he pushed into her. Just as before, he found himself flawlessly matched for her and her warmth encased him like a scabbard to a sword.  
  
“Lothíriel,” he murmured against her as his hips began to move, almost unbidden. She molded to his body and a rhythm was established. He kissed her neck and felt her skin against his. One smooth leg wrapped around his slightly, holding him as her hands ran across his back and neck. Her taste was indescribable as he felt her breasts, hands, lips, hair touch him. Every inch of his skin was sensitive to Lothíriel and he took pride in the way she felt.  
  
His passion and desire built until he was certain they’d both catch fire. That was alright. As long as she was warm. His rhythm increased as her back arched, closing the gap between their bodies as he felt his release. Her muscles rippled against him as he gave himself to her. Exhausted, he lay above her as she breathed. He hadn’t realized the how hot his skin had become, but he didn’t care.  
  
Worried he was crushing her, he pulled her against him and rolled over, bringing her with him. she laughed quietly and settled against him, her head on his chest. He felt apprehensive about what to do next. Should they get dressed and go to sleep? He was unsure, but took a cue from her as she embraced him. He wrapped one arm around her waist, the other brushing black curls from her face. Her eyes were closed as he held her to him and he leaned to the side, extinguishing the candle on her side of the bed. The other candle on his desk would just have to wait or die on its own. Settling against the pillows, Éomer pulled the covers above his waist and her lower back. He kissed the top of her head and turned to pull her close.  
  
“Good night, Lothíriel.”


	12. Unease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Lothíriel woke feeling warmer than usual. Blinking against the morning light, she breathed deeply. The memory of the night before flooded her memory like river breaking through a dam. She smiled to herself contentedly and sighed. Éomer’s arm was draped across her waist, his hand resting on her hip. She felt his chest expand against her back as he breathed peacefully. Turning slightly in the bed, she watched him sleep beside her. After all those nights with minimal contact, it was peculiar to finally feel her husband’s body touching hers. But she certainly welcomed it, for his touch had pleased her greatly.  
  
He opened his eyes slowly to look at her, his expression conveying his gratification. She felt his legs untangle from hers gently as he pulled her against his chest. It almost shocked her to see him so content. Such a hard life this man had led and here he was finding pleasure in her arms. But she took comfort in the thought that he was receiving at least a little of the happiness he deserved. He smiled slightly at him and she sensed his awkwardness.  
  
She herself wasn’t entirely sure what the previous evening had meant to either of them. Yes, it was lovely and felt incredible. But did it mean they were in love? Were they simply entertaining the desires of the flesh? Admittedly, Lothíriel had taken great pleasure in her husband, but she was uncertain as to where to go from there. She couldn’t honestly say she loved him. Love was something King Elessar and his wife had. Love belonged to Lothíriel’s cousin Faramir and his Eowyn. Love touched her parents and her brothers. But Éomer was not Lothíriel’s lover. He was her husband and the great difference made her doubt what had occurred between them.  
  
She wondered if Éomer’s had a lover. She wondered if he’d forsaken her love to commit himself entirely to his country. As much as Lothíriel wanted to believe Éomer loved her, she couldn’t help but think of her place in the kingdom. The ability to produce an heir was paramount. Lothíriel recognized with increasing solemnity the task and burden she’d been appointed with. She’d failed once already. She could not shame her family and Éomer again.  
  
“What’s wrong?” his soft voice banished her dark thoughts. She looked at him, his brown eyes narrowed with concern. His fingers brushed her lips and cheek as he waited her answer.  
  
“Your hip is crushing me,” she answered with a small smile. A look of embarrassment and surprise crossed his face as he all but wrenched his lower body away from her. Lothíriel laughed and sat up, holding the sheets to her collarbone.  
  
“I apologize,” he mumbled. She glanced over her shoulder at him with another smile. She was caught off guard by his eyes, which bore into her, sliding from her bare back to her face.  
  
“Aragorn was not elaborating when he said you were beautiful,” Éomer murmured, watching her.  
  
“King Elessar must have been referring to his Elven Queen,” she said with a grin. But Éomer shook his head, his gaze still on her.  
  
“I do not think so.”  
  
“Well,” she muttered with a slight shrug. “There are worse things I suppose.” She put her feet to the cold floor and wrapped the sheet around her body, using one hand to hold it to her and the other to grope around for her nightdress. She could hear her husband sigh and shift in the bed. Grasping her discarded robe, she traded the warm sheet for the chilled garment, wrapping it around herself quickly against the cold of the chamber. Walking to the long wooden closet, Lothíriel felt her teeth chatter against the cold. She glanced over her shoulder to see Éomer stoking the fire back to life. He’d pulled on the britches he’d worn the previous night and looked perfectly disheveled from a good night’s sleep.  
  
“I’m afraid I won’t see you until super,” he stated as a servant knocked on the door. Lothíriel nodded and allowed the young girl’s entrance.  
  
“Shall I draw a bath for my lady?” the servant asked after she placed a tray of fruit and bread on the table.  
  
“Not this morning, Rionah,” the Queen answered with a smile. “Tonight perhaps.” The girl curtsied and left. An already dressed Éomer walked to Lothíriel, placing a hand on her waist.  
  
“I will see you in the evening,” he murmured kissing her cheek. He picked up a piece of fruit and followed the servant’s path out the door, leaving Lothíriel half naked and smiling like an idiot.  
  
Her day was busy, busier than usual with the farmers of Rohan and their families. Lothíriel appointed some of the women, such Lady Berewyn, of Edoras as supervisors, since the Queen was needed in the Healing House. Certainly these women who’d lived here all their lives would know better how to handle their kinsmen and women.  
  
Lothíriel spent her time with Falas and the women of the Healing House. Already children and the elderly were afflicted with winter maladies. Lothíriel spoke with Lady Berewyn, insisting that any person with some healing skills ought work in the Healing House, as they weren’t enough healers to the ill.  
  
“It will be a long winter, my lady.” Lothíriel glanced at Cellwyn as they stood together in the storeroom hanging herbs to dry. Taking this moment of privacy, Lothíriel decided to pursue her concern.  
  
“For some more than others,” she replied. She put down the sachet of thyme and placed a hand on Cellwyn’s wrist. “I do not mean to intrude, lady Cellwyn, but I believe you and I both know the origin of these,” she pulled the sleeve up and touched the bruises lightly. The other woman’s eyes widened and she looked away.  
  
“I am overly clumsy,” she maintained quietly.  
  
“Unless you spend your nights blind and wandering about in a forest, I doubt your clumsiness, no matter how considerable, could create such wounds.” Cellwyn bristled and Lothíriel scolded herself silently. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound crass.”  
  
“It’s alright, my lady,” the other woman muttered.  
  
“Cellwyn,” Lothíriel’s voice softened, conveying her distress. “Please. If your husband is responsible for these, you must tell me. You should not have to live like this.” Cellwyn eyed her suspiciously. Lothíriel guessed she’d spent years hiding the bruises and creating excuses. As much as she would like to work to earn Cellwyn’s trust, Lothíriel could not hold faith in waiting.  
  
“It is none of your concern, my Queen,” Cellwyn insisted again.  
  
“Yes, it is. The happiness and safety of my people is just as much my concern as it is the King’s.” Cellwyn looked at her and Lothíriel decided to press on, confident she was reaching the woman. “You would not have to suffer in silence. Your husband would be dealt with and you would no long have to hide your skin.”  
  
“It is not so simple. He is not at fault for this.” Lothíriel stood shocked as Cellwyn moved to the bench and sat down.  
  
“Would you have me believe you are deserving of this abuse?”  
  
“What good is a wife who cannot become pregnant?” Cellwyn’s darkened eyes met the Queen’s, the solemnity of her statement sinking Lothíriel’s heart. But the older woman smiled sadly and shook her head. “That was his initial incentive. I doubt highly he even recalls that I am his wife. Now, he fills himself with ale and finds imperfections to rage about.”  
  
“No longer,” Lothíriel stated adamantly. “You will not return to him, Cellwyn.”  
  
“That will just anger him further,” she whispered. “Many years ago, when he first began his routine, I dwelt with my sister, convinced it was just a stage of his. Or perhaps the trauma he and the other men of the Mark shoulder. What a terrible fit that put him in. No, my lady. It is my duty as his wife.”  
  
“It is no one’s duty to suffer the foul temperament of others,” Lothíriel hissed angrily. She was inwardly surprised at Cellwyn’s calm attitude. Could it be that women here do not bring such injustices to their Queen’s attention?  
  
“What could you do, my lady?”  
  
“You would be taken from his home so he could no longer hurt you. You could stay in one of the spare chambers in Meduseld, I’m sure,” Lothíriel said, making plans in her mind. Whether or not they fit protocol. “Your husband would be removed from the Mark for his behavior, I should think, and…”  
  
“Are the Princesses of Dol Amroth always so charismatic and resolute?” Cellwyn smiled slightly as Lothíriel looked at her, eyebrows raised. The young queen hesitated in her declaration and grinned.  
  
“Only the mischievous ones,” she answered. Both women smiled. Lothíriel was glad Cellwyn was at least warming to the idea that her life could be more than her husband’s fits of rage. Perhaps it would all turn out for the better.  
  
\----  
  
“This isn’t going to end well,” Éomer muttered, picking up a scorched piece of pottery. He and his men were sifting through the burned town south of Edoras. Thankfully the inhabitants were in Edoras, but if they’d not been brought to the city in time… Éomer frowned to think of the sight that could’ve met his eyes.  
  
“The Dunlenders are becoming more aggressive,” Gamling noted, touching the remains of a table with the tip of his boots. Éomer ignored his Marshall’s observation, dropping the pottery with a scowl.  
  
“More aggressive and more cunning,” Elfhelm added. Éomer mounted Firefoot and stood beside the other man.  
  
“At least the people are safe,” Gamling said, following his King’s lead. His horse skittered to the side, uneasy in the broken village.  
  
“There are still the northern villages to be concerned with,” Éomer murmured. “We cannot shelter them from the cold in Edoras. That leaves them vulnerable to the elements and the Dunlenders.”  
  
“But the Dunlenders must themselves be concerned with the coming season,” Elfhelm pointed out. “Would they risk freezing to death to raid a village?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Éomer answered begrudgingly. “But I cannot allow this sort of senseless destruction. They must be dealt with.”  
  
“It doesn’t seem senseless, my lord,” a Marshall remarked, flanking his King on the left. “The stores were empty and the barn torched. This is a sign.”  
  
“Of what?” Gamling queried.  
  
“They are threatening the King. Burning the stables was a useless act if they were searching for food. But it was to make a point to the Lord of Rohan.”  
  
“And it will not be ignored,” Éomer vowed. He tried to imagine what his uncle would do in this situation. Not stand around unsure, that was certain. Éomer wished he had Théoden’s wisdom and knowledge. He wished Théoden were still King. He would keep his people safe.  
  
“The tracks of the Dunlenders point to the Westemnet,” Gamling said.  
  
“Then we ride north,” Éomer affirmed. “There are remaining villages near the Entwash and they must be warned. Elfhelm, take your company north, we will return to Edoras before nightfall.”  
  
“Yes, my lord.”


	13. Hostilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Entering Meduseld, one could most certainly hear there was a commotion going on in the Golden Hall. Picking up her skirts, Lothíriel hurried to the small crowd of people. She could hear a man’s angry voice and the gasps of people as she pushed her way through. Two guards were holding a disheveled man, who was struggling vehemently against their arms. On the ground lay a form, cowering beneath its arms.  
  
“What is happening?” the Queen demanded of the guards.  
  
“Hallas here has had a bit too much to drink, my lady,” one man said apprehensively. She frowned and stepped in front of him. The form on the ground was none other than Cellwyn. Lothíriel’s heart sank as she saw her friend quivering behind her own hands. It had only been a day and a half since they’d spoken in the storeroom, and already the brute found it fit to touch her.  
  
“Is this Lady Cellwyn’s husband?” The man in question looked at her, his eyes bloodshot and his expression cruel. The guards nodded in affirmation.  
  
“Lord Hallas, your wife has been released from your command,” she said tightly. He sneered at her, the scent of stale alcohol assaulting her senses.  
  
“Who are you to make that decision? Cellwyn is my wife.”  
  
“And I am your Queen.”  
  
“You, Gondorian bitch, are not my queen,” he rasped. The two men holding him tightened their grip as he fought against them. Another guard leapt forward at his words, the point of his sword against Hallas’ neck. Despite her displeasure and growing fear, Lothíriel stepped toward Hallas, her grey eyes watching him.  
  
“You may think so, but that does not give you the power to mistreat your wife,” she hissed. Lothíriel was surprising herself with this display, certain she appeared barbaric before these people. Hallas spit at her, his foul saliva landing shy of her face. Her disgust notwithstanding, the young Queen stood her ground, staring him in the eye until he looked away, the blade against his neck slackening.  
  
“Cellwyn is my wife,” he mumbled.  
  
“That is no longer so, Lord Hallas,” Lothíriel murmured. He looked up and made one last attempt to lunge at her, his teeth bared like an animal.  
  
“You are not welcomed here, you Gondorian whore. Go back to your land and ranger king -” His words were caught in his mouth as he was dealt a blow to the head.  
  
“Hold your tongue, Hallas son of Fréalaf,” a voice cut through the air. Lothíriel tried to find its source through the crowd of people. They parted, revealing Éomer. He stormed toward the man in arms, his expression thunderous. At first, Lothíriel thought his anger was with her, but that fear died as her husband grabbed Hallas by his hair, forcing his head up.  
  
“You are dismissed from my éored and expelled from Edoras,” the King said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “Leave now.” The men released him and he fell in a pile of limbs at his King’s feet. Staggering to his feet, Hallas stumbled through the group of people, muttering inebriated nonsense.  
  
Lothíriel didn’t trouble herself with his exit as she knelt beside Cellwyn, who’d lowered her hands to look at her monarch. Her left eye was terribly swollen and turning a rainbow of angry colors. But other than that, she appeared alright. Holding on to her arm gently, Lothíriel guided her to her feet as Lady Berewyn curtly sent the onlookers back to their business.  
  
“Are you hurt elsewhere?” Lothíriel murmured to the woman. She shook her head slowly, wincing with effort. The Queen called for a servant, placing Cellwyn in the girl’s care. “Bring her to the Healing House and notify Master Falas. Take a guard with you.” The servant nodded and led Cellwyn away. By the time Lothíriel could let out a sigh, the Golden Hall had cleared of the crowd. She was impressed with Lady Berewyn’s ability to command obedience and wished she could do the same.  
  
“Are you alright?” she turned to see Éomer looking at her. By the door hovered his men, Gamling and Elfhelm already making their way toward the two.  
  
“Other than being spit upon, yes,” she smiled slightly. Éomer did not. His expression had only softened slightly since he cast Hallas away. Lothíriel sighed and accepted Elfhelm’s offering of a handkerchief to wipe the saliva off her shoulder.  
  
“Luckily his aim isn’t so decent when intoxicated,” the man quipped as Lothíriel smiled at him. Éomer ignored the Marshall and turned to stare at his wife.  
  
“What possessed you to take this into your own hands?” The Queen stared at her husband, astonished. “He could’ve done worse than spit on you!”  
  
“Well it’s a good thing I did do something,” she retorted indignantly. “Seeing as the rest of the court was standing about watching.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I just…” He looked away, the muscle in his jaw tightening. Lothíriel felt her irritation cool as she shook her head.  
  
“It’s done for, now,” she said calmly. “I’m sorry you and your men were disturbed by this.”  
  
“It’s quite alright,” Gamling assured her. “Never did like that fellow. Suppose you did us a favor. He was always getting boisterous, that Hallas. A shame to his namesake.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Lothíriel asked, vaguely recalling a similar title from her books.  
  
“Hallas is a Gondorian name, my lady,” he explained. “Hallas son of Cirion was a ruling Steward in the White City. He created the land of Rohan and the name of its people.”  
  
“Strange I am not familiar with him,” she mused. “But then, I was always reading books about other cultures. Gondorian history rarely piqued my interest.”  
  
“Nothing but wars and dissatisfied Stewards,” Elfhelm teased. Lothíriel laughed, which allowed Gamling to relax. She could tell he was worried how the Queen might take to jokes of her country by a Rohirrim man.  
  
“Quite true, my lord. Now, if you will allow me leave, I should see to Lady Cellwyn.”  
  
“Give our regards,” Elfhelm called after her as she walked away. She nodded and left their company to check upon her friend.  
  
\----  
  
“Calls to mind the willful nature of your sister, my lord,” Gamling said as they watched the retreating form of the Queen.  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Éomer muttered. “The last thing I need is another Eowyn running about, sword raised, hacking Ring Wraiths apart like they were straw.”  
  
“You do seem to attract those kind of women,” Elfhelm smirked. Despite his mood, Éomer grinned and nudged his friend in the elbow. A wave of nostalgia flooded him with memories of the two of them as lads. Although he’d lived in Aldburg much of his adolescence, Éomer and Elfhelm were always creating mischief when the latter would visit him. He fondly remembered how little Eowyn would dash after them, trying to take part in the fun. He missed her.  
  
“My lord?” Gamling was giving him a quizzical look, and for good reason probably.  
  
“Staring into the Grey Havens, are you?” Elfhelm asked with a chuckle. “Pretty soon your wife will be ruling Rohan and you’ll be knitting with the spinsters.”  
  
“If my life should take such a fall, I’ll take you down with me,” the King answered smugly.  
  
“Someone ought to keep you in line while you’re making blankets with the womenfolk,” his friend countered with a smirk.  
  
“Enough you two,” Gambling shook his head with a good-natured sigh. “I don’t know how your highness’ sister or wife puts up with this.”  
  
“They don’t,” Éomer answered with a grin. “Come then. We need to get back to the éored before they leave without us.”  
  
The three men left the Golden Hall in better spirits than they’d arrived. The midday sun was bright in the winter sky. Firefoot awaited his master’s hand, his gossamer coat vibrant in the light. Éomer, Gamling and Elfhelm mounted their respective horses and led the éored down the main street of Edoras. For the first moment in his kingship, Éomer considered the possibility of his people surviving the cruel winter. Once that season was behind them, measure could be taken to rebuild and revitalize the land.  
  
But, of course, there was the problem of the Dunlendings. As much as he detested thinking about them, he knew it was an issue that had to be faced head on. If their violent acts of vandalism were more than tomfoolery, Éomer had to be ready for anything. Especially with the bands of orcs roaming the land. Faramir sent his wife’s brother a letter voicing his deep concern regarding the renegade fiends. While their master was destroyed, they were still a threat and a dangerous one at that. Bema forbid the Dunlendings join forces with the orcs…  
  
“My lord!” Éomer glanced up. He’d lost complete awareness while in thought. Already they’d ridden across the plains and covered much land. The King wheeled Firefoot around to look at the man who addressed him.  
  
“What is it, Folcred?”  
  
“A Dunlender!” Following the soldier, Éomer frowned, seeing a grounded man, huddled to the cold ground. Dismounting, the King of Rohan removed his helmet, glaring at the pitiful creature.  
  
“Speak your business, Dunlender,” he said curtly. The man glanced up, his dark hair covering most of his face. Éomer could see the filminess of one eye, marking blindness.  
  
“This frozen winter will kill your people,” the man rasped in labored Rohirric. “You, Éomer King, are doomed.”  
  
“Mind your words,” Gamling snarled, raising his spear. But there was no need, for the ailing man sneered severely before succumbing to his body’s pleas. He dropped to the ground and lay motionless.  
  
“This is a fair warning,” Éomer murmured, more to himself than his men. “I doubt strongly the frozen winter he speaks of is the weather.” He remounted Firefoot, steering the horse back to the direction of Edoras. “We return. I will write to my sister and her husband of this danger, for it may affect them as well. Forth Eorlingas.”  
  
A/N: “Staring off into the Grey Havens” is my made-up phrase, which would be like saying “staring off into space” or what have you, if you didn’t catch it. Oh, and I’m sure I screwed up the Dunlending’s names calling them Dunlenders, but don’t hate me!


	14. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

'Dearest Lothíriel,  
  
While it does not surprise me in the slightest that you took it upon yourself to dismiss this man, it worries me that he was so violent. You must be careful, little sister. You know the tales of olde that hail the Rohirrim as brutish. Though I know Father would never marry you to a barbarian and King Éomer is no such thing, do not be naive to the anger of men. Our brothers and I have sheltered you from these things, but you are on your own and in a foreign land.  
  
But enough of such warnings. You were never terribly talented at sitting still and quiet, were you, little Lothy? No. You were off climbing trees, getting your nursemaid into a lather and making us boys look like idiots. And here you are a woman and married! And you’ve started your very own Healing House, have you? I am pleased to hear this. Amrothos is certain you are running about in naught but riding breeches, hollering orders and running the place tight as can be. Your poor husband!  
  
News from home is dull, I’m afraid. Father is having the south garden replanted. He finds the pink flowers far too… pink for his tastes. Nani put up a valiant fight to keep her pink flowers, but alas, was defeated by father’s smirk. King Elessar and his beautiful Queen just arrived for a visit. It is wonderful to have them here. Queen Arwen has fallen in love with the ocean, just as you predicted she might.  
  
But things are not the same without you here. Erchirion and his wife welcomed their second daughter and your absence was noted. I am sure you are having a lovely time in Edoras. It is a breathtaking view, if I recall correctly. And you have that brat of a horse to keep you company. Hopefully soon you and your husband will pay us a visit. And who knows, little Lothy, you may have a youngster in tow.  
  
My regards to King Éomer and the court of Rohan,  
  
Your loving brother,  
  
Elphir'  
  
  
Lothíriel smiled as she set the letter down. It was a relief to know that Dol Amroth was at peace. She longed to see it once more, but for the moment, her dreams would have to suffice. Glancing to the side, she saw Éomer at his desk, deep in concentration reading his own letter…  
  
  
'Dearest Brother,  
  
News of home troubles me. Your wife was prudent in bringing the people to Edoras, but what of the outlying villages to the north? And if the Dunlendings have become more aggressive, there is need for concern. Shall I call upon Aragorn to send men to aid you? There is no shame in receiving help. But I know you are a dignified, stubborn man, Brother. You are also a wise King. Our uncle would be proud.  
  
Faramir sends his regards. He has taken to long walks with his son across the fields of Ithilien. Our son looks just as you did so many years ago, though I scarce remember you as a child. You had grow up so fast. But Elboron is a strong lad with his father’s auburn locks, though he holds the strong will of a man of Rohan.  
  
I apologize for the length of this letter, Brother. But there is a winter feast to be prepared. Kindly send Lothíriel our love. Tell her Faramir misses his female cousin entirely too much. Ask her to relay to you stories of their youth. They sound much like you, Elfhelm and I.  
  
With all the love and devotion in Arda,  
  
Eowyn, Princess of Ithilien'  
  
  
Éomer sighed, dropping the letter onto the desk. He was pleased for his sister, for her happiness was the most deserved. But he felt a sting of insult at her words. Seeking help from Aragorn? Certainly she believed her brother could handle his own kingdom without appealing to King Elessar for help. The Dunlendings were Éomer’s problem. Not Aragorn’s.  
  
Standing, he folded the letter and placed it atop the others from Aragorn, Faramir, Legolas and even one from Merry, all the way in the Shire. Éomer was touched the Hobbit would write to him and had immediately returned his own letter.  
  
“Is your sister well?” Éomer looked at his wife as she folded the piece of paper from Elphir.  
  
“Yes. She asks after you,” he replied. “Your cousin’s son, Elboron, is a good lad.”  
  
“I have no doubt,” she answered softly. He noticed the expression in her eyes darken. They’d both hoped their night of passion had resulted in a child, but so far, it seemed it was not so. He knew she was distraught about it, though she never said anything. Coming to sit beside her on the bed, he took her hand gently.  
  
“Hope is not lost,” he murmured. She raised her grey eyes to him and smiled slightly. Before she could answer, a knock on the door sounded. With a frown, Éomer walked to the door and opened it. A maid curtsied and apologized for the disturbance.  
  
“A messenger from the Westfold, my lord,” she said. Lothíriel came up behind Éomer, pulling her night robe around her against the cold. “He has ridden for many days and desires your Highnesses’ audience.”  
  
Éomer and Lothíriel followed the girl to the Golden Hall, where Elfhelm approached them. A man sat hunched over a table, eating and drinking as though he hadn’t seen food in days.  
  
“My lord and lady,” the Marshal of the East-mark greeted them. “He came not a few moments ago, riding alone. Both man and beast were exhausted.”  
  
Lothíriel walked toward the man and sat down across from him. Éomer and Elfhelm stood nearby. The man eat ravenously, his long blond hair catching pieces of the food. His beard was dirty and his expression gaunt. After a moment of hurried eating, he calmed, taking a swig of ale.  
  
“What is your name?” Lothíriel asked softly and amiably in Rohirric. The man looked at her for a moment before gulping the rest of his drink down.  
  
“Ceorl, my lady queen,” he answered, his voice tired.  
  
“What brings you on such an errand?”  
  
“My village,” he coughed and produced a dirty note from within his jerkin. She waited patiently for him to open it while Éomer fought the urge to fidget. “Many of my people have fallen grievously ill. A malady of the season. They say…” he hesitated, glancing at the King. “They say the Queen of Rohan can cure any illness. That she can save the villagers from dying.”  
  
“Hand me the letter,” Elfhelm said brusquely, taking it from the man. Opening it, he read its piece to the audience of Éomer, Lothíriel, Gamling and the other men of the Riddermark.  
  
  
'To our most gracious Lord and Lady,  
  
Éomer King and Lothíriel Queen of Rohan,  
  
Our predicament is grave, my King. The winter has striped our village of warmth and life. Fires burn low and animals die. Our children waste away with the lack of food. But more importantly, the health of your people is suffering the ills of winter. Young and old are falling prey to a terrible ague that consumes their mind and body.  
  
It has been spread, a glorious rumor that our Queen, the respectable Lady of Rohan, is a renowned healer. Please, my King, send us her aid or we shall surely parish.  
  
In honor and faith,  
  
Deor, Magistrate'  
  
  
“What nonsense!” Gamling scoffed behind them. “He would ask the Queen to journey like a Nazgul across Rohan when there are healers enough in Edoras and Aldburg to make the journey.”  
  
“It is not so,” Elfhelm murmured. “Master Falas cannot make such a trip. Not with this weather.”  
  
“Well I am not going to send my wife there,” Éomer declared irritably. Lothíriel glanced at him before her gaze settled on the messenger, her expression thoughtful.  
  
“A fever that sweats itself night and day? Eyes leak film and a cough that stirs the bones?”  
  
“Yes, my lady,” the man looked up from his plate, eyes wide. “You know of this malady?”  
  
“I do,” she answered. “And it is curable. Though it takes patience and time to learn how to administer.”  
  
“Please, my queen,” the man cried. “My wife and child lie upon their deathbed. You must journey back with me to save them.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Gamling snapped. Éomer could barely believe such a thing was happening.  
  
“No,” Lothíriel said quietly, standing. “I will go.” She raised her hand to silence Gamling and Éomer’s open mouths. “I could not live with myself if I did not. I will go and teach a number of women how to cure this illness and return.”  
  
“It’s too much of a risk,” Éomer stated with a scowl.  
  
“And it is even more so to leave these people – your people – vulnerable when you and I both know something can be done to help them.”  
  
“I would accompany my lady,” Elfhelm volunteered. “We can take half of the Mark, if you wish it.”  
  
Éomer turned away from them, contemplating this news with a heavy heart. He knew his wife and friend were right. He could not simply ignore his people’s plea for help. Lothíriel’s help. With a heavy sigh, he faced them.  
  
“I will allow this. But Lord Elfhelm will go with you. Take five men with you. As much as I would like to send the entire Riddermark to ensure your safety, you must ride light and fast.” He regretted his words as he said them, but he could not go back now.  
  
\----  
  
The morning came sooner than Lothíriel had anticipated. She’d barely slept and found her movements retarded by the lack of rest. Éomer had slept fitfully beside her, tossing and turning. He was awake before her, gone from the room when she opened her eyes. They’d decided the sooner the better and she would leave at midday.  
  
Stretching, Lothíriel pulled herself from bed and dressed. She wore the riding dress she’d arrived to Edoras in. beneath, she put on a layer of warm skirts. Pulling the cloak from its peg, she glanced at herself in the mirror.  
  
“Off another adventure, little Lothy.” She could quite imagine her brother saying that to her as she quickly plaited her hair. She called for a maid, who helped pin the braid so it wouldn’t flap about as Lothíriel shoved her cold feet into the warm deerskin boots her father had made for her. Within the left boot there was a thin but sturdy piece of fabric, which held a small dagger. Just in case.  
  
Deeming herself prepared, Lothíriel fetched a quick breakfast and met her husband outside. The sun was garishly bright, causing her to squint to see anything at all. A stable hand approached her guiding the unruly horse, Dergh. The beast whinnied appreciatively as she ran her hand across his face. Elfhelm winked at her as he mounted his own steed. She turned to see Éomer standing behind her, his hand on the stirrup leather, his face a mask. But she could see it in his eyes – he was anxious.  
  
“The first sign of trouble, you return immediately,” he said sternly to Elfhelm, who nodded. Looking at Lothíriel, Éomer frowned. “Beneath the saddle pad is a sword. My men are more than capable to defend you, but if you should need it…”  
  
“I will know where to find it,” she finished. She smiled, placing her hand on his. “It will be alright. We’ll be return sooner than you think.”  
  
“I will count the hours,” he muttered. Giving her a leg-up, Éomer gazed at his wife from the ground. “Be well, my lady. Do your job and, above all, return safely. Rohan cannot lose its Queen. And neither can I.”  
  
With a nod, Lothíriel guided Dergh to Elfhelm, who smiled kindly. There were five men of the Riddermark in their company. As they rode silently down the street away from Edoras, Lothíriel glanced back to see Éomer standing on the steps to Meduseld, his eyes on her. Behind, Lady Berewyn and Lady Ivriel raised their hand in farewell. Lady Cellwyn stood on the veranda of the Healing House with a smile, waving. It was as if they were wishing her goodbye forever.  
  
“It is custom to see royalty through the gates of Edoras,” Elfhelm murmured to her. “Especially a queen.”  
  
“I see,” she replied, her smile fading.  
  
“Cheer up, my lady,” he said with a grin. “I happen to be the best and most jovial escort in all of Rohan.” Lothíriel smirked as the gates opened up to the cold plains of the countryside.  
  
“What have I gotten myself into?”


	15. Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Of all the things he could have said, he warned – no, threatened that she stay safe. Why couldn’t he have embraced her? Or told her that he was proud of what she was doing? He hadn’t realized the effect Lothíriel had on him. But living in her absence was positively insufferable. He rationalized his attitude, thinking this was the first time in months Edoras had been without a female sovereign. But that’s wasn’t true. What of the months before Lothíriel? How could it be that he’d managed himself for months without a woman around and now he could barely last a day?  
  
Pacing restlessly in the darkness of the Golden Hall, Éomer upbraided himself for allowing this venture. What possessed him to agree to such nonsense? And to have Elfhelm go along, nay, bolster the idea… ridiculous. As King, he should’ve gone with them. As her husband, he should’ve gone with them. Éomer concluded, with wry solemnity, that he was falling into madness as Gamling cleared his throat.  
  
“What?” the King snapped, but regretted the tone. He sighed and sat down, looking at his Captain, who crossed the floor quickly. The faint light of wax-heavy candelabras gave the man an eerie glow as he stopped with a bow.  
  
“There has been a decline in Dunlending activity,” the man replied, stepping toward his ruler. “No more burned villages or destroyed barns. If you may allow me to say so, it is strange for them. But it could be the weather. Perhaps it has gotten the best of the brutes.”  
  
“Or perhaps they’ve joined forces with orcs,” Éomer muttered. Gamling frowned deeply with the very possibility, his expression hardening.  
  
“You don’t think… ?”  
  
“I don’t know,” the monarch sighed. “I was loath to allow the Queen to journey so far and that, along with your news plagues me. I wish you were right, but the Dunlendings are not ones to let weather bar their way.”  
  
“That may be so, but it is its own problem. Loth – the Queen is in no danger,” Gamling assured his friend. He came to stand before Éomer, hoping to keep the King from losing his wits. “Dunlendings are not known for traveling so far north, especially in winter. And you and I know the faculty of Elfhelm.”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Éomer stood, concluding the conversation. “You are right. But no more tonight. We will sojourn this talk until morning’s light. We must also discuss the problem of stores and grain. I fear we’ll dwindle in stock before the winter ends.”  
  
“Yes, my lord,” Gamling bowed again and turned to go, but not before he gave Éomer an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Sleep well.”  
  
Éomer grunted as he left. Walking blindly to his chambers, the King realized what a precarious pedestal Rohan was on. This winter could be the end of his people. With the War of the Ring over, there was peace between men. But economic concord was far from achieved. While Rohan had not suffered as much structural damage as Gondor, her fields were, for the most part, burned. The main source of trade was agricultural and if Rohan could not replenish her crops, there would be impossible to return to the old ways.  
  
After securing the door shut behind him, Éomer sat down on the bed, gazing at the night sky beyond the window. Somewhere, in the vastness of his land, his wife was sleeping on hard ground and trying to do something worthwhile. Leaning his forearms against his knees, Éomer hid his face with his hands, sighing with a heaviness belonging to a man twice his age. Without bothering to remove his shoes or outer clothing, he lay down, touching the pillow beside him. he was overwhelmed with comfort and calm as the fragrance of sage and earth met his tired senses.  
  
\----  
  
“We’ll stop here,” Elfhelm called. The night was dark, the moon hidden by thick grey clouds. Dergh halted beside the other horses, snorting softly. Dismounting, Lothíriel strained to see the vague outlines of their company. The cold bit through her riding dress and her hands were numb. She was deeply impacted with the endurance of the Rohirrim. While she was accustomed to days in the saddle, the painful cold and difficulty of terrain made her glad to have Elfhelm and his men with her.  
  
“How long until we reach the village?” she asked, helping the Marshall set water down for the horses. She was impressed in the amount of time these riders spent with their horses. Certainly it was no lark that they were called the Horse Lords.  
  
“We’ll be there by sundown tomorrow, my lady,” he answered, slipping the halter onto his horse. Once the horses were settled, they huddled close to a meager fire. They would have prepared a tent for the Queen, Elfhelm explained, but it would take more room than necessary.  
  
“I am no stranger to bedrolls,” Lothíriel replied with a smile. It was perhaps indecent to sleep out in the open with a group of men, but she was too tired to take notice. They would rise before the sun and set out in hopes of covering as much land as possible.  
  
Though dark, Lothíriel could make out the large outcroppings of magnificent stones, jutting many feet into the air. It was like a graveyard of fallen mountains, beautiful and majestic. She longed to see it in the light of day.  
  
Settling down onto her ‘bed,’ Lothíriel stared up at the cloudy night. Despite the biting chill, it was a gorgeous place and she took this time to admire it. Shadows of the rocks slid and fell as the moon’s face peeked from behind the clouds. Lothíriel thought back to the days of Sauron. Protected in Dol Amroth, she’d been kept in the dark about the war and its proceedings. But she could never understand why anyone would want to turn such a beautiful land into an industrial wasteland. She’d been told stories of the great Ents who’d destroyed the wizard Saruman’s infrastructure at Isengard, but she knew her imagination could not to the scene justice. As glad as she was to have been at home in relative safety, she couldn’t help but wonder what it must have felt like to defeat of legions of evil. Never in her twenty-five years of life had she ever been so proud of her race. A crowning moment for Men.  
  
Almost completely asleep, Lothíriel turned to her aside, eyes drifting shut when the sound of something thudding beside her roused her. Opening her eyes, her breath caught as she stared into the glazed eyes of one of the guards, head separated from body. Lothíriel choked on a scream as she floundered away from the dead man, her mind desperately trying to make sense of this. Her limbs, still heavy with sleep, made her slow as she heard the sounds of men grunting and shouting. Where was Elfhelm? What was happening?  
  
You’re being attacked, stupid, she reprimanded herself. She couldn’t just lie there and wait to be killed, so she forced her body into action. Remembering the sword, Lothíriel staggered to her feet. Bulky shadows were cutting through the night and the sounds of death broke through the formerly quiet air. While she knew there were only seven of them, it sounded as though an army was being slaughtered and it made her weak with nausea. Forcing her horror down, the Queen of Rohan fought to stay within a thread’s width of sanity.  
  
Lunging for the horses, Lothíriel searched for Dergh. She could hear the shouts of their assailants behind her as she tried to remain inconspicuous. She feared for her life and the lives of the Rohirrim, but she had to focus on finding that sword if she even had a hope of defending herself. Finally Dergh’s halter found her grasp and she attempted to force her cold fingers to work against the leather of his saddle. Swearing under her breath, she hurried to undo the straps that held the sword in place as her horse pranced around. Before she could loosen the final strap, a hand grabbed her shoulder, wrenching her back.  
  
She screamed in frustration and fear, punching blindly. Her fist came in contact with her attacker’s body and he growled angrily, lurching toward her. Lothíriel ducked to the side, hoping the terrified movement of the horses would discourage the person from searching for her. From the sounds around her, she could only guess there were about twenty men, all of whom were aggressive trying to kill her and her guards. She could hear the gurgled sounds of a man dying and tried to flee the scene.  
  
The shame of leaving her husband’s men hit her hard as she neared a clearing, the sounds of murder behind her. With that shame in her chest, she hesitated, her legs threatening to fail. If she could just get a weapon, she could help or at least wound some of the bastards. But such things were futile as she felt a heavy object hit the back of her head. She fell in a heap on the cold ground, the dimming sight of two boot-clad feet bidding her consciousness farewell as darkness welcomed her.


	16. Questions, Concerns and Headaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Lothíriel’s awakening was anything but glorious. Her head felt twice its size and her muscles ached from unidentified strain. The ground against her cheek was frozen and rough, stone she guessed. She lay on her side, trying to get a sense of where the rest of her body was. Though it was cold, she was not chilled to the bone and no wind assaulted her skin. her eyesight was fogged, though she couldn’t tell if that was because she was in a dark place or if she was going blind. She felt utterly helpless.  
  
It’s your own damn fault, she reminded herself. If she hadn’t run away like such a coward, she wouldn’t be in this predicament, whatever predicament that was. She wiggled her fingers and realized her hands were bound behind her back. Her ankles were bound as well, her legs curled slightly beneath her. It was the most uncomfortable position and she could barely breathe without setting her muscles aflame.  
  
She recalled the midnight attackers and the dying screams of her guards. She prayed some had escaped, Elfhelm as well. She couldn’t imagine the horrors of the actual event and struggled to remember her part in it. Her skull felt cracked and her hair was in disarray. She could hear quiet murmurings far from her, but no immediate sound near her. She knew they knew she wasn’t dead, so the element of surprise was futile. Not that there was much she could do in her present state.  
  
Compelling her body to obey her, Lothíriel bent and bowed silently, finding a bit of leverage in her position to force her torso up. Though her hands were bound behind her, she was able to support herself on her forearms (though she was sure her shoulder had dislocated itself in the process) and get a better view of her surroundings.  
  
Other than a faint glow far off, she couldn’t see much. Wherever it was, it was enclosed by stone. The wind whistled softly beyond the covering of rock and the dankness of the fissure made Lothíriel’s head ache further. At least she wasn’t dead. But she may as well be since she wasn’t entirely sure she’d make it out of this predicament alive. Shifting to the side, she heard a loud groan further in the depths of the fissure. The faraway voices became farther as they followed the sounds of unease. Lothíriel was positive she didn’t want to know the origin of those groans. Stretching her legs out, she felt a bulk against her calf. Retracting her appendages in fear, she listened. No movement or growling. Either it was a sleeping creature or a dead one.  
  
She found a bit more courage to extend her bound legs toward the form, touching it gingerly. It breathed heavily, moving, groping and squirming in the darkness. She could hear its labored breathing and deduced it was in pain. It was clearly in no better shape than she. Scooting slowly to it, Lothíriel tried to nudge it gently with her shoulder. It moaned. She recognized the noise from within its throat.  
  
“Elfhelm,” she whispered, shocked at the degraded quality of her voice. In the dimness, she could see its head rise until she was met with the shadowed eyes of the Marshall. Before she could offer him any comfort, she heard footsteps. Two men lumbered toward them, bearing torches. They were dirty, dark haired fiends who looked like they’d traveled the Gorgoroth plains of Mordor with naught but the skin on their backs.  
  
As the light fell on Elfhelm, Lothíriel repressed a horrified gasp. A cut the size of man’s finger was etched deeply into the skin of the Marshall’s left temple, dried blood a testament to its pain. One eyes was swollen shut and his lip bled fresh, staining the his fair beard. His other eye squinted against the light as he mumbled something of a threat to these men, who sneered at his bound body. They turned to Lothíriel, mocking expressions faded.  
  
“You are the healer Queen?” the bigger of the men asked in halting Rohirric. He kicked her leg gently as he spoke. Lothíriel lifted her chin, grey eyes narrowed.  
  
“Who are you?” she inquired with what little dignity she could salvage, given her state. The other man smirked and looked at her.  
  
“You have no leverage with which to ask questions, my lady,” he said, his Rohirric far better than his companion’s.  
  
“You have kept me alive for a reason,” she countered with a frown. The larger man reached down and hauled her to her feet, which were unsteady in their captivity. He had to hold her up, which made her scowl with displeasure. Elfhelm protested, trying to kick out with his equally bound legs, which got him a threatening glare from both men.  
  
“You know who we are, Gondorian Queen,” the larger man hissed in his faltering Rohirric. His breath smelled of meat and sweat as he leaned her close to him. “We are Dunlendings, the bane of your husband-king. Your questions are pointless.”  
  
“Then I assume you know who I am, or I wouldn’t be alive.” Lothíriel shocked herself with her audacity. She had no idea where this defiant nature was coming from and frankly, it worried her. Her captors obviously shared her surprise as they snorted and the man who supported her let her go. Without balance, Lothíriel toppled to the ground, sitting up immediately and moving closer to Elfhelm, a meager attempt to protect him.  
  
“Just answer the question,” the other man said. Her silence made the large man fidget and he said something in a harsh quick language. His companion quieted him, staring at Lothíriel. Before she could speak, another man came behind them.  
  
“Queen of Rohan, I apologize for the discourtesy of my men,” a smooth voice said from the shadow. She could see the vague outline of the voice’s owner beyond the flame light. He was of average height, not nearly as bulky as the man who’d held her up. He stepped into the light, crouching down to her. He was young, Éomer’s age. His dark shoulder length hair was pulled away from his face, his bright almost sickly blue eyes staring at her. There was coarse, short hair on his chin and upper lip, his jaw dusted with stubble. For his all his manners, he seemed well groomed.  
  
“My name is Beorn,” he said with a smile. His teeth were white and straight and she realized that he wasn’t all together hideous to look at, unlike his men. He wore dark clothes of heavy material and his hands, she saw, were rough from years of work. He took a knife from his belt and her breath hitched in her throat. He grinned and cut the ropes around her ankles and reached around her to do the same with the bonds on her wrists. He was unbelievably close, his eyes watching her always. His fingers brushed her skin as he move away from her, a smile pulling at his lips.  
  
“There now,” he said as if proud of himself. Lothíriel couldn’t help but wince as she brought her arms from behind her. Her skin was chaffed from the ropes, but she preferred it to being killed, though that was still a possibility.  
  
“Can I get you something?” Beorn asked with another smile, standing up. Lothíriel stood unsteadily, positioning herself in front of Elfhelm.  
  
“What do you want with me?” she asked hoarsely. Beorn’s men shifted uncomfortably behind him, but he never dropped his expression. Returning the knife to his belt, the Dunlending crossed his arms over his broad chest.  
  
“Your help.”  
  
\----  
  
Éomer felt like kicking something. All day he’d been in council meetings and he felt as though nothing had been accomplished. Aragorn and Faramir sent viceroys each to discuss with the King of Rohan trading possibilities, but both seemed to be missing the larger picture.  
  
“How do you expect Rohan to trade if there are no crops?” the blonde King asked in an exasperated tone. The thin man that represented Ithilien shrank under the younger man’s glare and shrugged his ungainly shoulders in response. Éomer turned away from the group and stalked the floor.  
  
“My King has suggested –”  
  
“I know what he’s suggested,” Éomer snapped at representative from Minas Tirith. “But I can do nothing until spring. My concern is with the people of Rohan and their survival.”  
  
“Lord Faramir hoped you might take his offer and allow Ithilien to send grain and seeds.”  
  
“We don’t need seeds,” the King muttered, rubbing his temples. He knew Faramir and Aragorn meant well. “Return to your respective lords and tell them Rohan appreciates their generosity, but we can do nothing until after winter.”  
  
“As you wish, my lord,” the Ithilien viceroy murmured. “But there is also the matter of the orcs.”  
  
He paused, anticipating a sardonic remark from the King, and when none came he continued. “They have been clever enough to avoid detection and there has been no formal encounter. Lord Faramir and King Elessar do not believe they would seek to hassle Gondor. Not now. But Rohan, my lord, is vulnerable.”  
  
“You are telling me things I already know,” Éomer grumbled impatiently. “What would your lords have me do? Send the Riddermark to destroy them?”  
  
“It was a warning, my lord.”  
  
“And a well informed one, I’m sure. Now, Lord Gamling will show you back to your quarters. You have a long ride home tomorrow and I have letters to bear to your lords.” He dismissed him, slumping into the seemingly grand chair. The Golden Hall was cold, despite the large fires that burned and the warmth of his clothes. Éomer couldn’t shake this feeling of utter helplessness. He knew well his own stubbornness. And while he longed to ask his uncle what to do, he wasn’t going to give Faramir, Eowyn, Aragorn or anyone else the satisfaction of knowing it.  
  
Éomer sighed, shielding his eyes with one hand and leaning back against the chair. What satisfaction? They were only trying to help. And Rohan needed it. Éomer needed it. But what did a Steward’s son, a Shield Maiden, and Ranger know of these things? It had been Theodred who’d been groomed for monarchy, not Éomer. How could Théoden ever think he could handle the weight of this responsibility?  
  
He felt pressure behind his eyes and longed to see his wife again. He’d grown fond of their quiet evenings, both reading, her in bed, him sitting at his desk. He wished to see her dark hair, beautifully luminescent in the low light and grey eyes. Éomer knew tales of the Elf, Mithrellas who came to Gondor and bore the first Prince of Dol Amroth. Her blood coursed through Lothíriel’s veins and Éomer knew his wife’s beauty was evidence of that lineage.  
  
He hoped she was alright. He found himself wondering if she was uncomfortable on the cold hard ground, or if all those hours in the saddle exhausted her. But he remembered, with certain comfort, that she grew up with three brothers. She was not as delicate as he sometimes thought she was and he liked that. He was attracted to her quiet strength and occasional boldness. Everything about Lothíriel made him want her.  
  
Glancing up, Éomer saw the Lady Ivriel clearing the wine glasses and plates from the table. The King of Rohan stood and walked toward the woman, who curtsied when she noticed his approach. Sitting down in the chair the representative of Ithilien had recently vacated, Éomer indicated for Ivriel to sit as well, which she did with a curious expression.  
  
“Tell me about my wife. Tell me about Lothíriel.”  
  
  
A/N: So it’s not direct communication, but he’s trying! He wants to love her pretty. Oh, and (being the nerd I am), I did a wee bit of research and it turns out Lothy was twenty-one and Éomer was twenty-nine when they got married. Oh well. We’ll pretend she’s a little older and he’s a little younger. Creative license and all that.


	17. Nature of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Lothíriel stared at him dumbly. Surely this was some cruel joke before they pulled out their swords and beheaded her. He wanted her help? With what – regicide? This was ridiculous.  
  
“Your silence makes me wonder if you’re slow in the wits or if you’re truly shocked with my statement.” Beorn smirked at her as she shifted uneasily on her feet. “Are you daft, woman? Speak!”  
  
“Well you haven’t put me in the easiest of positions,” she snapped. Beorn’s eyebrows rose with amusement. Lothíriel bit her tongue and took a breath before speaking again. “What help could I possibly give you?”  
  
“You are a famed healer,” he answered, tilting his head to the side, watching her. “One of my men is injured in a way that is beyond our remedial skills. If you will heal and tend to his needs, we will let you and your fellow here return home. I can see that you doubt my word, but it is all I have to offer. Well, that and your lives.”  
  
Lothíriel tried to make sense of what he was telling her, but there were still too many unanswered questions. Questions she wasn’t entirely sure she’d get answered. But now seemed as good a time as any to inquire.  
  
“You may be telling me the truth. But you had better be prepared to give me some answers. Where are my other men?”  
  
“Is it not obvious?” Lothíriel’s heart froze as realization set in. they’d killed every one of those good men. Husbands, sons, brothers… slaughtered. Beorn’s expression softened as though he actually cared. “We are not the delicate aristocrats you’ve no doubt been exposed to your entire life.”  
  
Lothíriel still lacked the words to speak further, but she glanced down at Elfhelm. His usually warm brown eyes blazed with fury and malice as he glared (with one eye) at Beorn.  
  
“Leverage,” the Dunlending said, guessing her next question. “We kept this one alive so you might behave reasonably. He’s a man of stature, not some guard. It seemed you would be more obliging if there was someone about who motivated you.”  
  
“You think those men’s lives are worthless?” the Queen cried angrily. Beorn smiled sympathetically, reaching a hand out as if to comfort her, but she recoiled. “I will do what I can for this man. But I have business to attend to further north.”  
  
“Ah, you mean the village?” Lothíriel nodded slowly, her brows furrowed. “Yes, well, that won’t be an issue any longer. That village has been dead for many weeks.” He stared at her open-mouth look of horror, which replaced itself with disgust. Beorn sighed. “It was not our doing. Orcs came through. Ravaged the place. But it occurred to me, once my man was injured, that this village could be of some use.”  
  
“You… monster,” she snarled, her emotions getting the better of her. “What of the messenger?”  
  
“Oh him. He was paid well, have no fear.” Lothíriel had never been so incensed in her life.  
  
“How dare you lie and call my men and me here. And then to kill them! Abduct us and expect me to help you! It is you who is daft if you truly believe I will agree to this.”  
  
“You’ve got quite a mouth, my lady.” His tone was snide and his smile was getting ever wider. “I think you and I are both aware that your husband would not allow you anywhere near us if he knew the truth. Now come, we don’t have much time.”  
  
The two men flanked her, one holding each arm. They escorted her away from Elfhelm, who was struggling against his bonds. Beorn followed Lothíriel and she felt his eyes on her. The cave widened as the walked. Deep within was a company of ten or twelve men. She noticed there were swords that bore the seal of Rohan. It made her stomach turn. As they further entered the cavern, all eyes were on her. The two men shoved her toward a pallet, upon which a young man lay.  
  
“His hand was crushed by a horse’s hoove,” Beorn murmured to her. Lothíriel figured there was nothing to do but kneel down and inspect the man. Indeed, his left hand was wrapped in crude linens and his skin was clammy with sweat. Bluish circles covered his eyelids as he slept fitfully.  
  
“You’ve gone through an awful lot of trouble for this fellow,” she muttered, lifting his hand gently.  
  
“This fellow is my brother,” Beorn growled. So it appeared even brutes had a little compassion. Lothíriel turned to face the leader of the Dunlendings.  
  
“How long has it been since this occurred?” she asked.  
  
“A day and a half.”  
  
“Long enough for the ill humors of the wound to spread,” she murmured. She delicately unwrapped the flimsy bandages and was met with the stench of rotting flesh. With the linen removed, Lothíriel examined the remains of his hand. The palm was a mess of blood, skin and muscle and three of the five fingers were bent, cracked and useless. Bones protruded where was skin had been ripped away. The consistency of his hand was a sloppy disarray of flimsy, wrecked tissue and darkened skin.  
  
“I’ll need my pack. I hope you were sensible enough to bring that with me.”  
  
Beorn called for a man, who dropped the small leather bag Lothíriel kept her herbs and salves in. She rummaged through it and turned back to the injured man, inspecting his hand once more. Beorn watched her carefully, his expression guarded.  
  
“Can you help him?”  
  
“Yes,” she answered slowly, setting his arm down. “But his hand will have to be removed.” Beorn stared at her as though she’d told him wargs were harmless. She sighed in an exasperated fashion. “You asked me if I could help. I can, but not if you’re going to restrict my actions. We have to get rid of this hand. It will do him no good in life and serves only to spread disease.”  
  
“And what do you purpose he do with one hand? Draw? A man with only one hand is useless to me.”  
  
“Is a brother with one hand useless to you as well?” she asked quietly. He turned his blue eyes on her and scowled. “He is not all together inadequate. He can still ride a horse, or hold a child. Certainly his life would not be over.”  
  
“His life in my service would be over,” Beorn muttered, looking at his brother.  
  
“And it appears that is all that matters.” Lothíriel avoided the man’s glare as she tied her hair back. “I’ll need fresh hot water, a knife, and clean linens. The sooner the better. Oh, and I would like my guard brought here so I can tend to his injuries as well.”  
  
“Bossy wench, aren’t you?” Beorn’s grin returned as he ordered his men to do as she directed. Lothíriel decided it was best if she ignored that remark. Better for everyone.  
  
\----  
  
“My lady’s never sewed a day in her life,” Lady Iviel divulged to the King of Rohan, who chuckled. “Of course, we tried to teach her. But she was always slipping away to be with her brothers.”  
  
“She’s fond of them.”  
  
“Quite.” The woman smiled. They’d spent an hour talking the night before and resumed that morning after breakfast. It’d taken Éomer a while to get Ivriel comfortable with him, but she opened up to his warm smiles and quiet assurances. He’d learned a lot about his wife, including her favorite dish and book. He lamented not being able to ask Lothíriel these questions directly and hoped she wouldn’t be upset with him or Lady Ivriel.  
  
“And does my lady enjoy making mischief with her brothers, as my sister did?”  
  
“Oh she was the naughtiest child,” Ivriel answered with a smile. “But so lovely. She could charm you right into forgetting why you were angry.”  
  
“That sounds familiar,” Éomer muttered and grinned. “My sister and wife are strikingly similar, Lady Ivriel. It’s almost frightening.”  
  
“Certainly,” the woman agreed. She was about to say something else when the door opened, light pouring into Meduseld. A guard strode quickly into the hall, bowing as he reached his monarch.  
  
“Forgive me, my lord.” The man looked agitated and disgruntled. Éomer waved his apology aside, eyebrows raised in question. Lady Ivriel stood and excused herself with a curtsey. The guard waited her to exit before he took a step toward the King. “Something has happened.”  
  
“Something?” Éomer stood, his heat beating loudly. “What something?”  
  
“Her Highness’ company has been broken,” he hesitated. “A routine ride of the Mark found their camp. Her guards were slain and the horses, gone.”  
  
“What of the Queen? And Lord Elfhelm?” Éomer could scarce believe what he was hearing.  
  
“Neither were found among the bodies.” The man took a breath and proceeded. “The men who found this rode hard all night to inform us. They say the camp was destroyed. It looked to be the work of orcs.”  
  
“Or Dunlendings,” Éomer snarled. “A pox on Elfhelm for convincing me to allow this. Ready my éored.”  
  
“But we do not know where the Queen is.”  
  
“Ready my éored,” the King nearly yelled. The man bowed low and sprinted away. Éomer sat back down, staring at the table. This was madness. Complete madness. What would the Dunlendings want with Lothíriel? Don’t be stupid, he chastised himself. They want to continue their little game. But it was no longer a game. Burning empty villages and barns was one thing. Abducting his wife and Marshall was quite another.  
  
Éomer shuddered to think what Lothíriel might be suffering at the hands of the brutes. He swore silent vengeance against any man that touched her. He tried not to imagine what barbaric things they’d done or were doing to her and Elfhelm. He prayed that they’d somehow managed to escape the attack, though he doubted it.  
  
“My lord?” He looked up to see the guard at the door. Standing, Éomer made sure his sword was on his person and followed the man out. His éored of twenty men was assembled before Methuseld. Two of the men belonging to the Mark that’d discovered the camp rode with them. Firefoot stood awaiting his master’s hand. Mounting the horse, Éomer nodded to the Riddermark.  
  
“It will take over a day to reach the site, my lord,” one of the men said. Éomer nodded and they started off at a brisk trot.  
  
“We have a lot of land to cover. And if there are any Dunlendings to be found, let them taste our swords for their offenses against Rohan and against the King. Forth Eorlingas!”


	18. The Bitter Taste of Appreciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

“Are you sure about this?” Beorn asked again, his expression skeptical. Had she been keeping count, this would’ve been Beorn’s third time inquiring after her confidence.  
  
“Why did you bring me here if all you seem to do is doubt my conviction?” Lothíriel retorted irritably. She felt the glower of his icy eyes as she rolled the wounded man’s sleeve to his upper arm. “Removing his hand is necessary if you desire his survival,” she explained slowly, hoping the measured length of her words would permeate Beorn’s thick skull. She wasn’t sure if it had the desired effect, for he simply slumped back on his heels.  
  
“Is there anything else I can get you? A feather pillow and bath, perhaps?” he sneered as his men chuckled behind him. Lothíriel turned to him, her grey eyes catching his in a furious glare.  
  
“I do not have to do this,” she snapped. “I could leave him for dead, just as you left my men. But I am doing my best to ensure his life is preserved. So it would be of great convenience if you would cease your rude remarks and do as I tell you.”  
  
Beorn kept his mouth shut and followed her orders. She could tell he did not enjoy being told what to do. Too bad. If he wanted her help, he’d have to deal with her rules. It’s not as though she volunteered to do this. Well, not directly. Lothíriel indicated to Beorn that she would need the assistance of him and two of his men.  
  
“Someone will have to hold him,” she said. “He will thrash and scream. Make sure someone has his legs, because he’s liable to kick. You,” she pointed to Beorn, “will have to cut through the bone as I am not strong enough. Make sure the cut is swift and clean. It will be between the bone of his hand and his wrist.” She took a breath. The knife had been sitting in the boiling water for many minutes to ensure it would burn cleanly through the muscle and bone. While Lothíriel had never actually participated in an amputation, she’d seen plenty. Hopefully her memory would transfer to her hands. She wanted this young man to live and she also wanted to prove herself to Beorn for Elfhelm’s sake.  
  
Not daring to think what would happen to either of them should she fail, Lothíriel directed the two Dunlendings, who held the young man’s shoulders and ankles, waiting. She made sure the linens were within quick grasp as she tried to prepare herself mentally. She felt her teeth chatter softly though she couldn’t tell if that was due to the cold or her growing apprehension. Elfhelm lay bound against the far wall of the cave, his eye watching her. She gave a quick nod to him and turned to Beorn, who was waiting on her instruction.  
  
“This must happen quickly. There will hopefully be a fair amount of blood, meaning the ill humors have not spread beyond the injury.” Beorn nodded and positioned himself opposite of her on the other side of his brother’s arm, which was outstretched. Lothíriel knelt in the space between his arm and body, her back to the young man. He lay unconscious, breathing peacefully from an infusion she’d made of herbs in her pack.  
  
Picking the knife’s handle from the water, she saw the steam rise from the blade. Good. With a deep breath, Lothíriel proceeded, not daring to look at Beorn or Elfhelm until it was done. She held on to the injured man’s forearm with one hand and pressed the blade to the skin below his wrist. The flesh sizzled and peeled away easily until she hit the bone. The young man twitched and Lothíriel realized this was the part she could not do. She motioned with her eyes for Beorn to take the knife, which he did gingerly. With a nod from Lothíriel, he sliced down.  
  
The sound of steel grating and cutting bone was drowned by a pained wail. The two men behind her held Beorn’s brother down as he began to thrash and convulse. Beorn did not hesitate in his task, seeming to ignore his brother’s pained screams as he cut the hand off. Finally, it was done. The ruined limb fell like a weight, dark blood pooling around it. Lothíriel had the linens ready and wrapped them around his wrist and created a tourniquet.  
  
The young man’s screams diminished into whimpers, his agony written upon his face. Once his arm was fashioned with bandages, Lothíriel dipped a cloth into cool water and wiped the young man’s sweaty brow. He moaned painfully in his sleep, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It calmed slowly as Lothíriel allowed him to inhale more of the infusion’s steam, which pacified him. She now turned to Beorn, who was watching her intently.  
  
“Bury the hand,” she said wearily. He nodded and one of his men scooped the appendage from its place on the ground and disappeared into the darkness of the cave. “The linens must be burned the first chance you have.” Her voice sounded distant to her ears as she stood and moved away from the pallet.  
  
It was only then that Lothíriel realized the entirety of Beorn’s company had witnessed the surgery and were completely silent, looking at her and Beorn’s brother. She felt suddenly very tired. Her lids were heavy and she longed to lie down. She felt the chill of winter beneath her skin, having forgotten it in the intensity of her task.  
  
“Once the bleeding has ceased, I can inspect the cut,” she told no one in particular. She washed her bloody hands in a bucket of water one of the men had brought for her. After that, she cleaned the knife’s blade and set it aside. She turned and nearly bumped into the blue eyed Dunlending as they stood in relative solitude near the back of the cave.  
  
“Thank you,” Beorn murmured quietly. She could see it was difficult for him to tell her this and she despaired that she was not in a mood to take advantage of his discomfiture. She shrugged and turned away. She still had to attend to Elfhelm. She walked to him, bringing her pack with her. Knowing it was forbidden for her to remove his bonds, Lothíriel focused on his face. She cleaned the wounds gently, telling him that soon enough he would be in the Golden Hall drinking ale and poking fun at Gamling.  
  
“That lout always drinks more than his fill,” the young Marshall rasped with a difficult smile. Lothíriel ignored the glances given to them by a few of the Dunlendings as she returned the smile.  
  
“Indeed.” She admired his reserve, aware of the pain he must be feeling, and bearing it with firm resolve. A true warrior of the Mark. Éomer would be pleased, though unsurprised she guessed. After all, they’d been friends since childhood.  
  
“But I would see first that these brutes be slain for what they have put you through.” His eyes (the swollen one a little less so) glared over her shoulder at the Dunlendings, who murmured together quietly near Beorn’s brother.  
  
“For what they have done to your men,” she corrected mournfully, looking at the ground. With an irritated sigh, Lothíriel returned her gaze to Elfhelm. How dare she profess frailty and exhaustion when he remained strong for her? She gave him a gentle smile before standing. Beorn approached her again, his blue eyes regarding her with a mildness she’d thought impossible.  
  
“You will sleep there,” he indicated to a bedroll laid against the curve of the cave, far from the entrance. Beorn’s brother lay to her left and Beorn himself was situated to her right. Strategic planning, she was certain. She was far too tired to argue so she followed him to the spot. Sitting down, Lothíriel glanced at him for a moment. He stared down at her, expression unreadable until she lay down and faced away from him.  
  
She stared at the stone wall, her body and mind sore with the events. They were so far into the cave that she didn’t know if it was day or night. But she knew it was still winter because she was chilled to the bone. She longed to be the warm bed in Edoras, her husband sleeping peacefully beside her. She wondered, with rising panic, what he would think if he knew she’d helped the enemy.  
  
She prayed Beorn would be good to his word and release her and Elfhelm once he was certain his brother would survive. Lothíriel feared an encounter with the Riddermark and the Dunlendings. She realized, with a twinge of shame, that she feared it because she’d have to witness it. But also because she knew Beorn’s brother wouldn’t have a chance. The other Dunlengings, however, were more than capable in the art of murder. Lothíriel wanted no more Rohirric blood shed and certainly not on her account. With those thoughts, she drifted into a dreamless, cold sleep.


	19. The Toil of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Complete madness. Éomer repeated those words in his head as a buffer to the darker thoughts that threatened to edge their way in. he and his company had been riding hours and the skies had only just turned charcoal with rain. It fell in freezing ropes, stinging the skin and blurring vision. Both horses and riders were quite used to this weather, but it did not make the mission easier.  
  
What could the Dunlendings want with Lothíriel and Elfhelm? Oh, the possibilities. Éomer refused to allow the options to present themselves, certain that he would take vengeance against them for this and other crimes. But what if it was a ransom? What could they want? Complete immunity from Rohirric attacks and a seat in the Golden Hall. Éomer almost snorted at the notion, but the seriousness of the situation prevented it.  
  
“My lord!” Éomer rode toward one of his men, who was pointing at something. Dismounting into the wet mud, Éomer squinted against the rain to see what the soldier was pointing at. It was a shiny flash in the dull light. Crouching down, the young King realized it was the sword he’d given his wife before she left. It looked as though it’d slipped from the saddle, as some of the buckles were still looped around the hilt.  
  
Éomer swore into the rain, picking it up. There was no blood on it, which could be a good or bad thing. Alerted by the call of another man, Éomer looked up to see a shadowy figure near the outcropping of rocks. It was a horse. He moved toward it on foot, slowly and deliberately so as not to scare the poor wet beast. It was Lothíriel’s Dergh. He looked at Éomer with fright and agitation in his watery eyes. Allowing Éomer to approach him, the horse’s curiosity got the better of his apprehension and he extended his nose toward the man, searching for a treat. Éomer smiled slightly, producing a hardened molasses square from his pocket to offer Dergh. Pleased with this gift, the horse let the King run his hand across his wet coat as he chewed contentedly.  
  
Éomer saw that the saddle had fallen to the side and now hung uncomfortably on the horse’s flank. He released the girth and the tack fell into the mud. Dergh tossed his head appreciatively and Éomer patted his neck.  
  
“Where is she?” he whispered, glancing back to his éored. “Any tracks have been destroyed with the rain,” he said loudly, not bothering to mask the frustration in his voice. “Where was the camp?”  
  
“Over here, my lord.” Éomer followed the man on foot, his horse and Dergh in his shadow quietly. The King of Rohan suppressed an enraged cry when he saw the bodies of his men strewn about the place, limbs hacked.  
  
“This savagery will not be forgotten,” he seethed, crouching near one of the slain men. The poor lad couldn’t have been older than twenty. The rain mixed with the sweat on Éomer’s face and just might’ve camouflaged the tears of anger and despair from his men as he turned away from them.  
  
“It will be easier to search for the Queen and Lord Elfhelm once this storm passes,” a mounted guard said. “Let us retire to the rock’s caves, my lord.”  
  
Éomer nodded and walked toward one of the outcropping of monolithic stones. They found one with suitable depth for the horses and men alike. It was not deep, but it would keep them dry. Tending to the beasts, the company was hauntingly silent, each within his own thoughts. Most were probably wondering at the rage of their King, should they find the Dunlendings.  
  
The man himself had wiped any trace of tears from his face and held a grim expression. It was almost like the days of old, when Théoden would send him to pursue a miscreant band of Dunlendings or orcs. Except this time, Éomer was King. And he was in search of those who’d taken his wife from him. he wasn’t entirely sure if what he felt for Lothíriel was love, but didn’t bother to analyze it. All he knew was that he wanted her safe and in his arms. And he wanted those who’d made her suffer to pay their dues.  
  
The morning broke cold and desolate. The rain had stopped a few hours before dawn. Éomer should know, he was awake for most of the night, staring at the ceiling of rock. They returned to the site of massacre with severe determination. After collecting and naming the bodies, the éored tried to make sense of the scene.  
  
“The Dunlendings surrounded them,” Éomer repeated. One of his men had come to that conclusion an hour before, but it seemed appropriate to remind anyone who’d forgotten. The warriors discussed among themselves the various theories.  
  
“Do you suppose it was deliberate? Was this a planned attack?”  
  
“How could it have been?”  
  
“Perhaps they were following the Lady’s company out of Edoras.”  
  
“Could they’ve known about the letter?”  
  
“Where did that messenger say he was from?” all eyes turned to Éomer, who was looking at the western horizon, his expression troubled.  
  
“A northern village, my lord.”  
  
“Yes, but which one?”  
  
“The magistrate’s name was Deor. The village of Mirais, if I am correct.”  
  
“We haven’t heard from them in years,” Éomer mused. “This is all very strange. I don’t trust the source. What was the name of that messenger?”  
  
“Ceorl, my lord.”  
  
“Brego, take your men further north. Find this village and Ceorl. When you do, bring him to me.” Brego bowed to his King and gathered his group.  
  
“My lord, if the Dunlendings do have the Queen and Lord Elfhelm in captivity, I do not suppose they’ve gone too far. Especially not with the rain last night.”  
  
“They have no horses,” another soldier noted, studying prints in the mud that escaped the rain. “On foot. Certainly they could not be many leagues away.”  
  
“Indeed,” Éomer nodded. “They are probably using the rock caves for protection and hiding. Comb the valley,” he said with a grim voice. “If you are correct, they should still be within the area.”


	20. And Suffering of Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

“Wake up.” Lothíriel felt a boot kick her gently in the back. Rolling to the side, she was met with Beorn’s cornflower eyes, which regarded her with an emotion she couldn’t place. He was inches from her, leaning over her bed. She could hear the other men murmuring quietly behind him.  
  
“My brother is awake,” the leader of the Dunlendings stated, moving back so she could get up. Her muscles were either extremely sore or numb. Her hair was in disarray and there was dirt and soot on her skin. Certainly she looked more like a wraith queen than Rohan’s monarch. She ignored the image she must’ve presented to them because it didn’t matter.  
  
She knelt beside Beorn’s brother, whose name was Eofor. He looked much better, his eyes open and skin cool. His eyes were the same color as his brother’s though warmer. He smiled with cracked lips and she guessed he was about seventeen. His hair was dark and long, the faint stubble across his chin giving him the appearance of being older.  
  
“Good morning,” she said politely. She noticed someone had changed his bandage while she slept. She gently unwrapped the linen. Eofor winced.  
  
“Are you an Elf?” the young man’s voice was strained and faltering in Rohirric.  
  
“No,” she replied with an inescapable smile. She cleaned the wound quickly, noting how he tried to remain stoic. She marveled at tolerance of the young man (though she imagined he was really still a boy, made old by experience). “But I could probably introduce you to one.” He smiled back at her, his eyes narrowed with pain. She cleaned the end of his arm and rewrapped it. He thanked her and Lothíriel found herself far more tolerant of this one, rather than his brother.  
  
Said man observed her with a dour expression, leaning against the stone, smoking a pipe. Lothíriel glared at him and he stared back her with equal intensity. His assertive nature reminded her of Éomer. But then, her husband was not one to capture Queens and blackmail them into helping him. Minor difference. Beorn relented to her silent admonishment and doused the pipe.  
  
She was not allowed to see to Elfhelm, but she could see that he would be alright. His external injuries seemed minor. She worried at broken bones and internal damage, but there was nothing to do about that now. He offered her a gentle reassurance with his eyes across the cave. She was wished she could find the strength to save the both of them, but she wasn’t entirely sure she possessed such valor.  
  
The hours passed without time. Lothíriel didn’t know how long they’d been gone and she had no idea if it was day or night. Beorn had allowed her to relieve herself outside, but she’d been blindfolded and escorted by two guards for many leagues. They gave her relative privacy and she was permitted to remove the blindfold, though she didn’t need it. She didn’t recognize the place at all. It was all rocks and scraggly ground. She saw the sun was hidden by clouds but guessed it was twilight. Once she’d finished, the blindfold was returned and she was escorted back.  
  
As they reached the hollowed circle in the cave and her blindfold was taken off, Lothíriel listened to the men speak. Kneeling beside Eofor, she wiped his brow, glancing every now and again to the circle of men. Eofor was listening as well, his expression troubled. Lothíriel couldn’t understand their dialect but it sounded urgent. Beorn looked distressed and he shot her a glare. He spoke brusquely to his men, waving an arm in a horizontal sweep to indicate the cave. A Dunlending responded quickly and sharply, pointing at Lothíriel and raising his voice. Beorn reprimanded him, also gesturing to the Queen. After a moment of silence, he gave directions. The same fellow began a question, to which Beorn cut him off sharply. The man bowed and the cave was emptied of Dunlendings.  
  
“Morgil says your King has been spotted south of this place,” Eofor murmured to her. “My brother sent them to make sure the party does not find us.”  
  
Panic rose in Lothíriel’s chest as the prospect of a confrontation became quite real. Her heartbeat quickened and she sat back heavily on her heels, seeing bloodshed before her eyes. What if Éomer was killed? What if the Dunlendings slew the lot of them? What if…? A hand wrapped around hers, bringing her back to reality. Eofor was grasping her hand in his, his expression concerned.  
  
“My lady?” he asked softly. Lothíriel forced a smile and patted his hand. He lay back against the pallet and she resumed her task. She was mildly surprised with Eofor’s kindness toward her, given the contempt she’d been met with from the other Dunlendings. Perhaps it was his age.  
  
“You need to rest,” she said with a nod. He rolled his blue eyes to the ceiling, a lopsided grin on his lips. “Don’t you give me that face,” she scolded in a good-natured tone. “Now to sleep with you!” Eofor fell back against the pallet with an indignant but playful thud. But he did close his eyes and after a moment, his breaths deepened. The young man had suffered much in these days and could not be made to stay awake longer than necessary.  
  
Lothíriel scooted away from him, cleaning the extra bandages in the small cistern of warm water. She glanced up at Elfhelm, who was bound and gagged in a painful niche. His eyes were closed and it seemed he was conserving his strength. She heard Eofor shift on his bed before resuming a gentle snore. She smiled to herself, the young Dunlending suddenly reminding her of her brothers.  
  
“You shouldn’t treat him like a child,” Beorn said quietly. He was sitting across from her, his knees drawn up. He leaned against the stone, looking at her between the peaks of his knees, his forearms resting on their surface. He looked utterly relaxed, the countenance of a lounging predator. At the slightest move, he could spring to action, taking down anything in his path.  
  
“He still is,” she replied, glancing back at the younger brother.  
  
“No, my lady. He is not.”  
  
“What would you have me treat him as?” she asked softly. Beorn’s eyes met hers as she washed. She held his gaze steadily, not willing to let him dominate her with his words and silent authority. “Would you rather I treat him like some barbarian, unfeeling and cold? Tell him to ignore the pain and forge ahead? You and I both know that kind of talk could get him killed.”  
  
“It hasn’t,” he murmured.  
  
“Yet.” She stopped washing, sitting back on her heels to look at him. “Who put such loathing in your hearts?”  
  
“You might ask your King,” he answered after a moment. She realized she was sitting only a pace or two from him. His blue eyes bore into her like icicles, remorseless and frozen. “It was his uncle’s son who butchered my mother and sister. It was his sword that stole the life from boy twice before his time.”  
  
Lothíriel tilted her head slightly, black curls draping her shoulder as she listened. The bitterness in his voice was not lost on her. But neither was the pain.  
  
“If you expect me to believe you are not guilty of similar acts, then –”  
  
“I have killed no one’s wife, nor sister or daughter!” he exclaimed, but lowered his voice. Eofor and Elfhelm slept on. Beorn moved toward her, until he was inches from her face. She could almost taste the earth and sweat on his skin but refused to avert her eyes.  
  
“Perhaps not,” she replied at length. “But you have killed someone’s husband, brother and son. You cannot deny that.” She could tell he was going to berate her for that comment, but she didn’t give him the chance. “This is a war torn country. I am not ignorant of that. All the same, it seems peace could be had.”  
  
“Tell that to your husband,” he growled. But this time, it was Beorn who broke the gaze, staring irresolutely at the ground.  
  
“He is too pigheaded to accept the thought, just like you. But between you two, I do not doubt an understanding could be had. An alliance, no. But accord for all your years of bitter fighting would be welcomed. You and my husband have the potential to stop this.”  
  
“Somehow I think it is you who would put the words in our mouths,” he murmured. He looked at her again. She noted the way his visage was centered on his eyes, pools of azure gleaming and watching. He was very much in similar appearances of King Elessar, though Beorn seemed younger. The Dunlending shifted, moving his head closer to hers. Lothíriel found herself immobile. His fingers wound around a lock of hair as he maintained her gaze steadily.  
  
“Beorn.” She spoke softly as he moved closer still. “Do not give me reason to call you a barbarian,” she whispered hesitantly, closing her eyes. She felt his gentle pressure on her hair release and the warmth emanating from his body disappeared. When she opened her eyes, he was standing several paces away, glaring at the negative space between them.  
  
Lothíriel felt an unfamiliar and indescribable pressure in her neck, as if her heart had been caught between her chest and mouth. The back of her eyes stung with tears that she did not let fall. What was the matter with him? How dare he think he could be congenial to her and then turn around and seduce her? She looked up, about to give him what-for when she found he was upset with himself. His expression had darkened and she could almost see the self loathing leak from his skin.  
  
“Get up,” he muttered tightly. She stared at him, bemused and concerned. “Stand up, curse you!” She stood unsteadily. Elfhelm and Eofor roused at the sound of Beorn’s voice, the latter about to ask a question, which his brother silenced. The sound of horses, though distant, could be heard through the long opening of the cave. Éomer was here.  
  
“Brother, you must get up as well.” Beorn was buckling his sword to him, tossing the order over his shoulder. Eofor stood and Lothíriel immediately moved to help him. He thanked her with his eyes and pulled his belt and scabbard from the ground. Lothíriel did not offer to assist him in putting it on, for it meant that she would have sentenced a rider of the Mark to injury or death. Beorn helped his brother and they doused the torches.  
  
Lothíriel felt a hand on her wrist and she was tugged toward the dim light of the mouth of the cave. She was being led by Beorn and she heard Eofor behind her. She paused, glancing around in the relative darkness.  
  
“But –”  
  
“There is no time for him,” Beorn hissed in her ear, pulling her along. So they exited the cave, leaving Elfhelm behind.  
  
The grey sky, though bleak, was bright and its intensity caused dots to impede Lothíriel’s vision as she was hauled roughly around. She tripped on the wet ground, listening to the sounds of horses as they neared. Seeing there was nothing for her to do, Lothíriel allowed Beorn to drag her around, Eofor bringing up the back. It all looked the same for her, but Beorn seemed to have an idea. He stopped suddenly, turning to his brother.  
  
“Go east,” he indicated a jerk of his head. “Circle around them. We’ll meet you at the stone pass.” Eofor looked at him, pupils dilated. But within a second, he nodded and sprinted away. Lothíriel turned on Beorn.  
  
“You’ve sent him to his death! Straight into the path of my men!”  
  
“Sacrifices,” Beorn muttered, yanking on her wrist as he started moving again. “And if you’re wise, my lady, you will not test my patience.”  
  
Lothíriel offered a silent prayer for Eofor, for she knew the Riddermark would show him no mercy. She longed for the sword Éomer had given her. The she remembered the dagger in her boot, scowling deeply at her own stupidity. Why hadn’t she recalled that earlier? She felt it now, rubbing gently against her skin as they tore around the rocks and stones. Well she would make its presence known soon enough, or she’d be just as doomed as Beorn’s brother.


	21. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eomer did not know his bride. She did not know him. It seemed that they were the only married couple who had not wed for love. But a tragedy will bring them together and strengthen their country.

Whatever possessed him to drag that sharp-tongued girl along was probably the same thing that influenced his tolerance of her. She was only slowing him down and irritated him with her questions. At least she had the sense not to scream like a gutted pig. He knew women had that propensity.  
  
Beorn’s grip on her wrist was tight because he could not afford to chase after her if she broke free. Her skin beneath his was soft and smooth, not at all unwelcoming. It was a fool’s choice to abduct her. He’d been willing to leave Eofor to his misfortune, the stupid boy. If he couldn’t stay on a horse, he deserved to have his hand smashed by unmerciful hooves. But his men would not quiet and went on and on about healing the lad. Finally, Beorn relented and allowed his men to devise a slapdash plan that involved capturing the Queen of Rohan.  
  
While her skills were impressive, he found her a complex problem he was in no mood to deal with. On one hand, Beorn now held in relative captivity the Queen of his enemy. On the other, it meant the King would not stop until he found her. But it had been the will of his men that brought her here. He had to admit, it was a dramatic plan, sending that fellow from the north with a ‘letter.’ How foolish of you, Éomer, Beorn thought smugly. You should have been more protective of your prize.  
  
And now she was his. Well, she was under his control. Though he would never admit it to her or his men, he was pleased that his brother had a chance to survive. The lives they led were arduous and often required sacrifices of the most painful type. Had not Beorn’s own father left his young sons to brave the bitter elements while fleeing the Riddermark so many years ago? Indeed, Beorn and Eofor grew up in a harsh world, one the likes of Éomer would never know. But it was this beautiful young Queen who’d given him hope. Given Eofor hope. But that angered Beorn. Men like him could not rely on hope. Not in this lifetime. She was putting ideas into their heads. Thoughts of comfort and trust. Those were dangerous and Beorn decided the Queen could become more of an enemy than Éomer without realizing it.  
  
She’d worked her magic on his brother, but she was more trouble than she was worth. And now he had the King on his tail. Still, Beorn couldn’t rationalize why he’d brought her. There was something about the woman that both irked and intrigued him. His brother had mistaken her for an Elf, but Beorn could see she was no such thing. She wasn’t nearly arrogant or vain enough. But she was a pain.  
  
He paused, listening to the sound of horses fading into the distance. They were not being pursued. Beorn felt the coldness seep into his very bones and he let out a heavy, smoky breath. The Queen beside him was panting lightly, her grey eyes narrowed with exertion. Leaning against the tall monument of stone, Beorn looked at her.  
  
The thick riding dress was torn and muddied. Beneath, the skirts of brown appeared to only provide minimal warmth. Despite the dirt on her face, the Queen held an air of elegance foreign to a man like him. Her bone structure hinted at Elven heritage, with high cheekbones, arching brows and a strong jaw line. Her complexion was pale without being sickly. A thick mane of black curls, like serpents, veiled her neck. Éomer was a lucky man, it would seem.  
  
“Do you plan to run forever?” she asked quietly. Her voice was accented, having hailed from Gondor. There was a quality to her voice that calmed him and offered him something beyond this dank existence.  
  
“If I have to,” he answered, looking away. He wasn’t sure where he was running or why he’d taken her with him. He didn’t worry about the Rohirric man abandoned in the cave. He was bound and gagged. Even if Éomer did somehow find him, Beorn didn’t have to worry about the man telling his King anything important.  
  
“Why did you send Eofor away?”  
  
“I had to.”  
  
“Why did you bring me?”  
  
“I had to.”  
  
“Have you a plan?”  
  
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” he snapped, knowing it was not the truth. It was evident she knew it too. She watched him with those grey eyes that seemed to look into his very soul. In all his years, Beorn had never met such an insufferable, beautiful, confounding, captivating woman and he found himself wanting to know more about her. To spend more time in her company.  
  
Initially he felt wonderful satisfaction for capturing such a valuable pawn in this war against the Rohirrim. But there was a sense of longing as he looked at her. He would never taste her, never hold her, never know her touch. She was royalty. He was scum. In that way, he was more jealous of Éomer than ever. But it was not Éomer, King of Rohan, who held this woman’s company now. It was Beorn.  
  
“I have done as you asked of me. Your brother will be fine, as long as the bandages are changed and the skin is allowed to heal.” She spoke to him, but her eyes were on the sky. “Will you be true to your promise and let me go now?”  
  
“I believe I said I would allow you to return home,” he reminded her. “If you so please, you may go.” She looked at him, eyebrows raised. Clearly she hadn’t anticipated him keeping his word. Neither had he. She turned away from him, contemplating a path. She began to retrace her steps, leaving Beorn leaning against the rock.  
  
“My lady?” she paused, offering her profile as she waited for him to speak again. “Thank you.”  
  
She resumed walking, navigating the wet, muddy terrain with the awkwardness of unfamiliarity. Beorn looked away, refusing to watch her disappear. He feared failure. Allowing her to heal Eofor would ultimately destroy him. His men were either dead or in the process of killing the Riddermark. And for what? A woman he could never have. It was incredibly foolish of him to put his men in this situation. They had created such a perfect plan to irritate Éomer into ignoring his people and now it was jeprodized by this woman.  
  
Beorn shook himself of his thoughts as the sound of horses grew closer. The Queen’s figure halted, listening. He could run her down and demand the Rohirrim cease the murder of the Dunlendings. He could force Éomer to give him what he wanted. But watching her, he realized that it would be pointless. He would be killed. So he crept away on silent feet, sending a quiet promise into the cold air.  
  
“By my life, Queen of Rohan, we will see each other again.”  
  
\----  
  
Éomer pulled Firefoot to a halt, his sword bloody. They’d been met by Dunlendings – an abnormal move. Usually the brutes did their mischief and slunk away. But these men charged his éored full force, as if it were their final fight. The Riddermark showed them no mercy, until Éomer stopped them. If these men had Lothíriel, killing them would keep him from finding her. Regardless, none of the men talked, even when threatened with their lives. He respected and cursed their loyalty.  
  
“My lord!” Éomer turned in the saddle to see a Rohirric man gesturing to his King. Firefoot trotted toward the man. He was pointing at something in the valley of rocks. A figure was struggling against the slippery, difficult ground to ascend the hill. Éomer recognized the riding dress and touched his horse’s flank. The beast responded knowingly, making his way down to Lothíriel.  
  
She stopped and waited for him to reach her. Éomer dismounted before Firefoot had stopped, taking his wife by the shoulders, searching her face. Her skin was smudged with dirt and her dress was wet, but she seemed alright. She smiled slightly and Éomer felt his heart warm. He hadn’t realized how much fear lurked within him until he saw her face. He couldn’t imagine what he’d done if he hadn’t found him.  
  
“Thank Bema you’re alive,” he blabbered. “We must get you back to Edoras at once.” He was in the process of picking her up and lifting her into the saddle, but she was protesting, slapping lightly at his hands. He stepped back, perplexed.  
  
“I’m capable of getting on the horse myself,” she muttered indignantly. “And first, we must fetch Elfhelm.”  
  
“Elfhelm?” Éomer frowned, eyebrows knitting with doubtful surprise. “I thought surely he was slain.”  
  
“It is not so,” his wife replied, shaking her head. “They left him in the cave. Come, I will explain later. But he is need of food and water, I’ll bet, after all this time.”  
  
“Lothíriel.” The Queen turned to look at her husband. He stepped toward her, placing a hand on the side of her cheek. “I… I am glad you are well. I was worried… the Dunlendings are not known for their hospitality… I thought, perhaps… Well I didn’t know for certain. I mean you –”  
  
“I missed you,” she said with a smile. She took his hand in hers, abolishing the awkwardness that threatened to destroy his reserve. He couldn’t muster a smile to return, but he squeezed her hand gently in response. Perhaps things would be alright in the end.


End file.
